


Life Had Just Begun

by xxPayne



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (I promise everyone is alive in the end), (in a way), Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - High School, Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Bullying, Depression, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Period-Typical Homophobia, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Time Travel, Violence, oh there's also a little bit of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-16 12:32:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 63,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11828838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxPayne/pseuds/xxPayne
Summary: Stand up. Breathe. Run. Survive.Back on his knees, Harry can wipe the blood from his eyes and see again, blurred and in slow motion, but he can see. He doesn’t think, he just moves. He gets to his feet, stumbling as his brain goes white in time with the lightning strike.Run. Run. Run.It’s 1985. All the cool kids are wearing Members Only jackets and acid wash jeans. The gay rights movement might be gaining traction around the country, but for a small town in Colorado, even listening to Queen is an invitation for a beating. Louis Tomlinson’s life is turned upside down when he comes face to face with the afterlife, and is given one seemingly simple mission: save Harry Styles.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **[Click here](http://homelyrics.tumblr.com/warnings) for more detailed, spoiler-y descriptions of why I used the tags that I did. If you may be triggered by any of the warnings, please read this first!**  
> This fic was surprisingly fun to write about, despite the heavy nature of it. I don't think that it's too angsty, because there are so many lighthearted moments in between the angst. That being said, this fic does deal with some dark things, such as suicide and murder. By the end of the story, however, there is NO major character death, and I promise it's a happy ending.  
> I did extensive research for this fic, but there's bound to be some inaccuracies considering I wasn't alive in the 80s and I'm also not a doctor. Also, the Portopia Serial Murder Case is a real game, and you can see some gameplay [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P6UQWvjC12I).  
> (Also let me warn you now, for a large portion of the book, Louis is in a relationship with someone who is not Harry - ie. an OMC and then Liam. This is all completely necessary for the plot, and I promise they end up together and it's all worth it.)  
> [tumblr](http://homelyrics.tumblr.com) //  
> [fic post](http://homelyrics.tumblr.com/post/164373370599/life-had-just-begun-word-count-64k-graphic) // [fic playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/agreig71/playlist/1CEuHvJuIYTABfZeprQQoB)

_ “Red, red wine, it’s up to you, _

_ “All I can do I’ve done, _

_ “Memories won’t go, memories won’t go” _

 

Louis clutches his plastic cup reverently as he weaves his way through the bobbing crowd. His name gets shouted a few times, and he smiles, but bats them off without a second thought. They’re all too high to care, anyway.

The smoke in the air is cloying, surrounding his brain like cotton. He feels dizzy even though he’d only had one joint. He felt a touch too sad after that and decided to call it quits for the night. Ironically, as the first notes of “Red Red Wine” rung through the stereo, he’d poured himself a huge glass of it. Wine is classy. Louis could do with being classier.

“Loubear!”

A smile envelopes Louis’ face as he turns to meet the only person who’d ever dare to call him Loubear.

“Hey, Li,” he says, punching the boy in the shoulder. Liam’s drink spills all down the front of him, but his puppy dog grin doesn’t falter. “You ditched me back there.”

“Johnny was showing me the shirt he got Stevie Wonder to sign,” Liam says, with visible hearts in his eyes. “Stevie Wonder,” he repeats, his face going slack with joy. “Just imagine…”

A laugh is startled out of Louis as he realizes just how baked Liam is tonight. He puts his hand on Liam’s shoulders and attempts to steer him out the nearest door, the one that leads out to the patio. “Let’s get out of here, I’m tired.”

Liam recoils, stepping back. “Quit it, people will think we’re fucking.”

“No one thinks we’re fucking,” Louis rolls his eyes. “Jeez, let’s just go home. You said you’d stay at mine.”

It only takes a bit more urging before Liam reluctantly lets Louis lead him out (though, not without stopping to down the rest of their drinks. Free booze is free booze).

 

_ “Red red wine, I'm gonna love you till I die,  _

_ “Love you till I die, and that's no lie  _

_ “Red red wine, can't get you off my mind” _

 

Liam mumbles the words while he stumbles outside, the door catching on his jacket and making him fall apart into giggles — Louis tries to unhook him, but Liam tries to move forward at the same time, making him crash on the ground in a heap. Louis laughs so hard that he falls with him, their legs tangled up, blocking the doorway entirely.

“My jacket,” Liam wheezes, his eyes glazed over from weed and from happy tears. “Still stuck.”

Louis rolls over, his head smacking into Liam’s belly and then his chest. It’s a very firm abdomen, Louis thinks. “You’ve been working out.”

For reasons Louis can’t understand, this sends Liam into another fit of laughter so loud that he thinks the entire party, as deafening as the music is, can hear it. It’s endearing, Louis might as well admit. Liam is endearing.

“Come  _ on _ , big guy, you need to sleep this off.”

He successfully frees Liam’s jacket from the doorknob, gripping Liam’s warm hands tightly to pull him up. Together, they make their way to the front and down the sidewalk, singing bits and pieces of all the songs played at the party. They can even hear the music drifting down the street, subdued and lonely sounding.

For someone who seemed to care so much about people thinking they’re fucking, Liam hasn’t a care in the world as he puts his face near Louis’ shoulder and sings, “Let you know, tonight’s the night. Me and you, my part-time lover.”

Louis joins in, even though he  _ shouldn’t _ — because anyone could be out, this late at night. They wouldn’t know what to make of two boys hugging each other and singing about a lover. “We are undercover passion on the  _ ruuun _ , chasing love! Up against the suuun,” he grins, proud of his ability to hit the relatively high note. Liam could do it better than even he can, though.

“We are strangers by day,” Liam sings, off-key and too loud. “Lovers by night! Knowing it’s so wrong, but feeling so right.”

“Shh,” Louis laughs, drunkenly putting his hand over Liam’s lips. “You’ll wake the town.”

“Cool your jets,” Liam says. He kisses Louis’ cheek and gets it all slobbery.

By some miracle, they make it home safely. As safely as one can consider it, when Liam had to stop and barf in the bushes half way through. “The liquor just hit me,” he had said, in between retching. “Never partying again.”

They both know it’s a lie, but Louis doesn’t argue.

Louis’ house, when they arrive, is deserted. His mom is using her one day off this week to stay at a friend’s house, and his sisters are with their dad for the weekend (which Louis wanted no part of), leaving Louis all to himself. And Liam. Liam practically lives here, anyway. On any given day, the pullout couch in Louis’ room will smell like Liam’s body wash.

“Can I sleep with you?” Liam asks, pouting his ridiculously plump lips.

Louis doesn’t respond, just grabs the extra pillows off the couch and throws them on the other side of the bed. He climbs into the far left side, leaving plenty of room for Liam to get in.

He does, rather obnoxiously, shaking the entire mattress while he makes himself comfortable. It’s squeaky as all hell, too, something Louis unfortunately has to deal with when he’s getting a little busy with his right hand. When Liam finally settles down, with his head on the pillow and staring at Louis with sparkling brown eyes, Louis thinks that  _ this _ , just being with Liam, is what he’ll miss most when he’s gone.

 

_ Red red wine, I loved you right from the start, _

_ Right from the start, and with all of my heart. _

 

+

Louis’ mum returns home the next morning, making her presence known by tossing her keys into the steel bowl by the front door and startling them awake.

“Boys!” she calls, because she knows just as well as everyone else that Liam will be here too. “I’m home, and it’s noon so you should be awake!”

With matching headaches pounding between their ears, Louis and Liam mope their way downstairs to greet Jay with hugs. Louis has no doubt that she knows they were drinking last night, but she doesn’t say a word. Whenever something like that comes up, she always just shakes her head and says, “I was seventeen too, you know,” and that’s that.

She digs a few dollars out of her purse and hands them to Louis, telling them to go for a burger. Liam and Louis go to the diner dressed as they were before, in patterned cotton shorts and bright yellow t-shirts inscribed with “Mulberry Middle School Soccer”. The shirts are far too small, now, but they’re too sentimental to throw away. And it makes Liam look buff. Louis darts a look at Liam’s biceps as he pulls open the diner door, then busies himself with staring at the menu when Liam looks back at him.

“I’ll order, you save our seat. The usual?” he asks.

Louis nods.

Jenny’s Diner is a brightly colored square-shaped restaurant, with windows on every wall. The booth they frequent most is faced directly towards the mountains in the distance, snow-tipped even in the sweltering heat down here. There’s a creek that curls around the diner, flowing out around the back and ending in a small waterfall. When Louis was little, his mom would keep a watchful eye while he stood under the stream, sitting on the rocks and letting the water soak him. He’s too big now — the waterfall would only reach his mid thigh.

Liam comes back with two red baskets, filled to the brim with french fries. They’re the thick cut kind, homemade and seasoned with something better than any other diner in town. “Burgers are still cooking, they said.”

He slides in across from Louis, already digging into the fries. “So how embarrassing was I last night? Be brutal.”

“Cross-faded mess,” Louis waves a fry in the air. “Your jacket got stuck in the door and we both fell down. Oh, and you barfed in the bushes.”

“I remember that part,” Liam says sagely. He polishes off his basket, stealing a fry off Louis’. Louis shoots him a warning look, but he grabs another one anyway.

“Cool it, Pac-Man,” Louis grunts. “You said you were trying to cut out the junk before soccer season, anyway.”

Liam makes a pained face. “Coach Darrell can seriously kiss my ass. These fries are delicious, and if I want to enjoy them I will,” once he gets started, Liam doesn’t stop. “He’s always going on about how I need to lose weight, run faster, blah blah. Hell, I’d love to see him run even  _ half _ a mile. Wouldn’t that be a sight?”

The saying “if you can’t  _ do _ , teach” has never been more true than when applied to Coach Darrell. He’d tried to be a professional football quarterback, but he’d broken his leg in the middle of the season and fell out of practice on break, ruining his chances to do anything other than teach at the high school. Except they already had a football coach, so they stuck him in soccer and hoped for the best.

Louis definitely won’t miss Coach Darrell when he’s gone. 

“Hey man?” Liam draws his attention back in. “I know he’s been going hard on you lately. He’s an ass, okay. You’re the best player we’ve got.”

“It’s fine,” Louis says, eager to steer the conversation in a different direction. “Um, thanks.”

“Did you hear what happened to Jamie?”

Louis looks away, out the window where all he can see is the winding stream and the little shops the dot the land, mostly skiing supply stores and coffee shops, at the base of the mountains. They’re so much bigger than they look; when you’re actually climbing them, and you’ve walked for miles but the peak looks as far away as ever. “Yeah, I heard,” Louis says quietly. “He was good.”

“Too bad he’s queer, he’d have gone far.”

“Yup,” Louis says. There’s a lump in his throat that doesn’t lessen no matter how many french fries he shovels down. “I’m gonna go check on the burgers.”

The leather seats squeak when he stands. Liam seems confused, head tilted and eyebrows scrunched, but doesn’t say anything. 

The girl at the front counter has massive, teased hair, adding at least a foot onto her height. There’s a neon pink headband wrapped under it, holding it all back from her heavily made-up face. Overall, she’s quite pretty; sort of Liam’s type.

She smiles at him when he approaches. “You’ve got the two burgers?”

Louis nods and she turns behind her to grab the tray off the metal serving table. “Have a nice day!”

They finish their food and then bicker about what they should do next. It’s too hot to go anywhere outdoors, though it’s September and it should have cooled down by now, and they don’t want to waste their time taking turns on Castle Wolfenstein. Louis hates that stupid game anyway, he always dies.

“Want to go for a swim?” Liam suggests.

“Where?”

“The lake should still be warm, right?”

Louis shrugs. “You’ve got the gas money for a two hour drive?”

“‘Course I do. Only thing my piece of shit parents are good for.” Liam winks, and that settles it.

There are no highways where they’re going, so the drive consists of slow, winding roads with too many potholes and roadkill. It’s worth it, though.

The lake is breathtaking in it’s beauty. Everything here is  _ green green green _ , even while the rest of the state starts to turn a burnt orange shade. The mountains are all around them, towering with bright white snowcaps. Pine trees line right up to the shoreline, a thick forest separating the lake from the steep hills. And the wildflowers, still growing in all colors of the rainbow, will stay there until they’ve been thoroughly smothered with snow later in the year. At the moment, it looks as if summer is eternal.

The light breeze cools the sweat on the back of Louis’ neck as they hop out of the car and approach the water.

They realize too late that they didn’t pack any extra clothes, let alone a bathing suit, but Liam simply takes his shirt off without a word about it. Louis tries not to stare, but the broadness of his shoulders and the flexing of his muscles as he bends down to take off his shoes is overwhelming.  _ Jesus _ , all this beauty surrounding him and all he cares about is the hot boy in front of him. He shakes his head and starts undressing. And he absolutely does not look down when Liam takes off his underwear. Well, he only looks down a little bit. 

The water is slightly chilly, but with the sun still beating down on them, it feels like paradise. He could stay here forever, swimming nude with Liam. He can’t think of a single better thing to do with the rest of forever.

He has a fleeting thought that maybe Heaven, if it’s real, will feel like this.

He supposes that he’ll find out soon.

+

Bryan Adams is playing when Louis taps on the window. It’s playing so loud that he’s afraid he won’t hear him, and considers just going home. He shouldn’t be here anyway.

But there’s a hand on the glass, and then the window is being pulled up.

“Lou?”

“Hey, Jamie,” Louis says, forcing his face to stay neutral. “Um. Are you busy?”

Bryan Adams continues to sing in the corner of Jamie's shoe-box bedroom, and Jamie blushes. “Yeah, I mean. No. Come in.”

Louis pulls himself up into the window, kneeling on the sill and climbing down off Jamie's dresser. The song goes quieter, and he looks like he’s debating changing the cassette entirely when Louis says, “Keep it, you know I like this one.”

Jamie's cheeks and neck and ears are blotchy red, but Louis can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment over listening to  _ their album _ , or that he’s been crying. If he were crying, Louis wouldn’t blame him.

“How’re you holding up?” Louis asks, when Jamie doesn’t offer any conversation.

“Louis,” he says, dragging a hand down his face. “What are you doing here? You said it’s over.”

“I — that was before —” Louis pauses, huffing. “You know I’m not the one that started the rumor, right? Please tell me you know that.”

The shrug Jamie gives isn’t promising. He’s staring at his feet, wearing socks with blue dogs on them, already in his pajamas for the night. Fleetingly, Louis wonders if he woke him. But Jamie wouldn’t have fallen asleep listening to music that loud, anyway. “I don’t know,” Jamie whispers. “I just, who else would think … Do you know who it was?”

“No,” Louis says honestly. “All I heard was that someone told Coach you were kissing, uh. A boy in the locker room.”

“It’s not even  _ true _ ,” Jamie cries, his hands balling into fists. “Of all the things I’ve actually done, they go and — I went on the field once with your come still in my  _ mouth _ , how is it that some kid starts a rumor about me kissing someone and I get kicked off the team?”

“Jesus, be quiet,” Louis says. “Are your parents home?”

Jamie stares at him like he’s astonished Louis is worried about it. “No, they can’t stand to look at me. They went to go see my grandparents, I think. God, now my fucking grandma will know I like cock, isn’t that fantastic?”

“Lay down,” Louis orders, toeing off his shoes and climbing on the bed. “On your stomach.”

“Why? I’m not exactly in the mood.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “I was gonna give you a back rub, dickhead.”

Jamie flops wordlessly onto the bed, his arms and legs splayed out like a starfish. His shirt rides up, exposing his toned back and the dip in the muscle before the hem of his sweatpants. Louis tentatively lifts his shirt higher, Jamie flopping around uselessly as he allows him to tug it over his head. Louis places his palms flat on his upper back, kneading the tension out of him.

It’s peaceful, for a moment, with the music playing softly and the only movement being that of Louis’ hands.

“What are you doing here?” Jamie asks again, voice trembling.

“I was stupid,” Louis says. He focuses on his hands, watching Jamie's back movements instead of his face. “For leaving you. I — I thought it would be better if we weren’t worried about being caught, but. Um. I’m gonna tell them, okay?”

Jamie sits upright, twisting out of Louis’ grasp. “No, no, you’re not.”

“I won’t say anything about you,” he reassures. “Just about me. It’s fine, I can take it.”

“You are not coming out, are you insane?” Jamie's mouth is hung open like he’s lost the ability to close it, and his eyes are bulging like a bug. “They’ll tear you apart.”

Louis doesn’t say  _ it doesn’t matter, I’ll be gone in a month anyway _ , but he wants to.

“It will be fine,” Louis laughs nervously. “They’ll let you back on the team, and—how bad can it be?”

Louis doesn’t have time to react before Jamie is backhanding him across the cheek.

“What the  _ fuck _ ?” Louis yells, jumping out of the way. He clutches his cheek, a little dramatically considering it didn’t hurt much, only surprised him. “What the actual fuck?”

“I’m not about to sit here and watch you get killed, asshole!”

Jamie's eyes start to water and there’s a brief moment where Louis thinks about staying, about surviving, but as soon as the spark is lit, it’s extinguished. It would be delusional to think Louis could ever be happy.

“You can’t stop me,” Louis says, staring at the bed sheets so hard that the subtle grey pattern starts to swirl in front of his eyes.

“What will your mom think? Your sisters? Liam?”

“I don’t want to talk about Liam,” Louis says just as soon as Jamie's lips form the ‘L’. “I know they won’t take it well, I’m not stupid.”

Jamie must realize he’s talking to a brick wall, because his shoulders slump and he rolls back over. “I don’t want you to end up like Styles.”

“I won’t,” Louis shakes his head, curling up beside Jamie. His stomach is turning over from the lie. “I promise. I’ll be fine.”

+

Harry Styles is a bit of a legend.

Harry Styles, star of the football team. Harry Styles, always a gentleman, yet never dated the same girl longer than a month. Harry Styles, played guitar and sang like an angel.

Harry Styles, who came out as gay in September 1983 and whose body was found at the bottom of a dumpster on the edge of town in November, the same year.

There was a picture of it on the news for weeks, only Harry’s limp hand hanging out of the bin as the examiners tied a bag around it for later testing. Another picture of them hauling his body out, though Harry’s parents had ultimately gotten the reporters to stop showing that one. 

The investigation only lasted a month. The examiners, doubtlessly, ruled it a homicide, but they stopped looking for new leads after just a few weeks. They said it was because there were no witnesses, no fingerprints, no weapons, but everyone knew the real reason why the police halted the investigation and shoved it to the back of the filing cabinet, and it wasn’t for lack of evidence.

Louis doesn’t know what happened to Harry’s parents. He thinks they may have moved. Before that, though, they loudly and actively tried to get investigators to pick up the case again, and when they still refused, they campaigned for gay rights through the city. 

Louis doesn’t blame them for leaving, not when they had to hear shit like “he deserved it” every day of their lives, no one else brave enough to stand up for Harry.

Louis has never been brave enough.

+

There’s six days left on the calendar.

The red X taunts him, so big and attention-calling on the otherwise empty month of September.

There’s so many things Louis has left to do before the 18th, and he almost considers putting the date off. He can’t, though, it’s been in his plans all year.

He’ll just have to be quick, that’s all.

He wants to stay in today and write out a more detailed plan than the one he’s got hidden in his underwear drawer, but Liam will be picking him up for soccer practice any minute now, and if he skips this practice everyone will assume something is wrong.

Louis has barely enough time to throw a new pair of socks in his duffel bag before Liam pulls into the driveway and starts honking madly. He huffs, heading outside into the chilly weather. It’ll heat up later, especially when they’re running laps, but for now everything is wet and cold.

“It’s 5 am, jackass,” Louis says instead of a greeting. “My sisters are still asleep.”

Liam has the decency to look sheepish. “I’ll tell them I’m sorry after school,” he says. “Oh, and I brought breakfast.”

It’s a tupperware of soggy scrambled eggs and a layer of Kraft cheese. “Breakfast of champions,” Louis sighs, starting in anyway.

“You okay?” Liam nudges Louis with his elbow.

Louis blinks. He can’t remember the last time someone asked if he was okay.

“Of course,” Louis says, making sure Liam is watching before opening his mouth and obnoxiously showing him his chewed food. “I was up late, that’s all. Not too excited about working my ass off at 5 am on a Sunday.”

Liam takes a sip of his Mountain Dew, entirely inappropriate for so early in the morning, but Louis sort of wishes he’d had the foresight to make himself a coffee. “What were you up late for?”

Louis makes the mistake of stuttering an “um”, unable to lie to Liam. He’d stayed at Jamie's far longer than he should have, the two of them lazily falling in and out of sleep, barely talking and barely moving. He’d left minutes before his mom would be waking up for work, skateboarding home and dipping under the covers like nothing had happened. He’s gotten good at being quiet. “I couldn’t sleep,” Louis says, finally.

The stereo switches over to Jukebox Hero and Louis cranks it up, effectively ending the conversation. Liam shakes his head but sings along anyway.

“You know they’re having a concert in Albuquerque?” Liam says, turning the dial down again. His eyebrows are raised expectedly.

“That’s a whole day’s drive, you lunatic.”

“We’ll make it a road trip, then. Maybe invite some other people? It wouldn’t kill you to make some new friends.”

“I have other friends,” Louis says, affronted. He turns to look out the window and notices the sky getting darker rather than lighter as the clouds rolling in. The last thing he wants is to have soccer practice in the rain.

“Who?”

“Lots of people,” Louis huffs. He pulls his zipper up and down and tries to calm his nerves. “I’m friends with, like, Jamie.”

“Jamie,” Liam says, like a statement rather than a question. “Jamie, just-kissed-a-boy Jamie?”

Louis’ ears are hot and his jacket feels itchy on his neck. “No, that was just a rumor. I don’t even know who started it, but—Jamie wouldn’t, uh. Do that.”

The fact of the matter is that Jamie  _ would _ do that, and has. He’s kissed Louis before games in the locker room, after games in the showers, he’s kissed him in bed and on sofas and on the floor, he’s kissed him in the rain and in the lake and on a mountain. He’s kissed him in the car, nearly swerving off the winding road before they decided to never kiss while driving again. He’s kissed him under the dimly lit gazebo by the lake, with a boombox playing a mixtape they’d painstakingly created together. He’s kissed Louis and blown him and fingered him and fucked him, and taken it all from Louis right back.

Louis rests his head against the window to cool his blush. It’s best not to think about Jamie, or boys at all, around Liam.

“So he’s straight?” Liam asks. “I always got a vibe from him, you know… I wasn’t surprised when the rumor went ‘round.”

“He’s straight,” Louis nods. “I would know.”

“I didn’t realize you were that close,” Liam says, eyebrows scrunching together momentarily. “Well, then he can come with us to see Foreigner!”

“Yeah, maybe,” Louis shrugs. He can’t make plans this late, but he doesn’t want to crush Liam either. He knows Liam’s been itching to go to a concert for forever, and he’s only just now gathered the money for one. “Still a long drive, though. I’m not saying yes yet.”

Liam grumbles something about him being a buzz kill, but Louis brushes it off.

They arrive at the school just as the sky opens up and little droplets of rain splatter onto the windshield. “Fuck,” Louis complains, his feet dragging as he opens the car door. “Coach better make it a weight room day.”

+

“Fair warning, I smell really bad,” Louis shouts into the cracked window. He laughs when Jamie jumps, the book in his hands flying onto the floor.

“Jesus, Lou,” he grumbles, opening the window for him anyway. Presumably, he catches of whiff of Louis and crinkles his nose. “Please take a shower.”

“You don’t like my manly, rugged scent?” Louis pouts.

Jamie gets a clean towel out for him, setting it on the bathroom counter. He shoos him towards it, not even allowing Louis to give him a peck on the cheek first. Louis can’t blame him, he does smell truly awful after two and a half hours of practice in the warm rain. A shower sounds out of this world.

If today were a normal day, he would leave the bathroom door open while he strips, maybe even put on a show before he gets in the shower. As it is, he leaves the door cracked and jumps right under the warm spray.

“Can you put on our mixtape?” Louis asks when he gets out, dropping his towel on the floor. He doesn’t bother slipping on the sweatpants Jamie laid out for him.

Jamie is already digging out the cassette before Louis even finishes his sentence. He doesn’t look at Louis when he says, in a small voice, “Why are you doing this?”

Thinking again, Louis puts the sweatpants on and frowns. “Doing what?”

“This, doing  _ this _ . You broke up with me and then you came back to say you’re going to come out, and now you’re here again,  _ naked _ , just—what are you doing? Because I love you, you idiot, and I don’t think you feel the same.”

There’s _ so much _ in that sentence, making Louis’ head spin.  _ Jamie still loves me _ , _ even after I broke his heart. _

“I—” Louis can’t formulate any kind of response, like his brain just leaked from his ears. “I do love you,” that, he can say honestly. “I love you, and I want to be with you.”

He can’t say,  _ I broke up with you because I keep hoping that Liam will realize he’s gay, and that’s not fair to you. _

He can’t say,  _ I broke up with you because you love me more than I love you _ .

He can’t say,  _ I broke up with you because I’ll be dead in six days _ .

“I love you,” Louis repeats, remembering that day when Bryan Adams belted through the boombox as they said  _ I love you _ for the first time. He wishes he could go back to that moment and end things right there. Jamie deserves better. “Okay? It was stupid to break up with you.”

It  _ was _ stupid, too. Breaking up with Jamie was a misguided attempt to soften the blow when Louis dies, but he should have known that it would cause more heartbreak than it’s worth. He wants his last few days with Jamie to be happy ones, so he’ll at least be able to remember that.

Jamie takes in a breath and says, “Okay. I believe you.”

Heaven fades into Careless Whisper. Jamie takes off his own shirt and climbs up next to Louis, lying his head on the pillow and laughing. “I think you owe me a blowie, at least.”

Louis hums, leaning up to kiss him. His lips are chapped, but he’s enthusiastic, pushing forward and licking over his bottom lip. He pulls away to say, “You don’t have to blow me if you don’t want to,” to which Louis laughs and pushes him backwards again.

“Shut up, I’m getting to it.”

He’d rather take his time—who knows when or if he’ll see Jamie again—but it’s clear that Jamie wants it now or never.

Louis makes himself comfortable, rolling onto his stomach with his elbows propped up by a fluffy pillow. His head ends up near Jamie's naval, where he plants a line of kisses down the soft skin, mouthing at the space just before his pants. Louis’ hair, still wet, drips cold water on Jamie's stomach.

“Sorry,” Louis laughs when Jamie jolts. “Should I put my hair up?”

“No,” Jamie's nose wrinkles. “You know I hate the headbands.”

“Fine, but don’t yell at me when you get water on your dick. I offered.”

They stare at each other for a moment before they start laughing, Louis lying his head on Jamie's hip.

“Lou,” Jamie whines. “My mom will be home soon. Really, if you don’t want to do this right now, that’s fine.”

Louis huffs, pulling Jamie's pants down without another word. He’s half hard already, and smells like that pine body wash he knows Louis loves.

He licks from the base to the tip, feeling Jamie's hand thread through his hair, just resting there. Knowing that they won’t have the house to themselves for long, Louis speeds up the pace, sending a short prayer that his jaw won’t be sore after, and taking the head in his mouth. He closes his eyes and focuses on the technique, which he’s quite proud to say he’s good at it. At least if Jamie's short breaths and tiny jerks of his hips are anything to go by.

He brings one hand to Jamie's thigh for leverage, the other wrapping around his cock.

“How long d’you think we have?” he asks.

“Maybe — maybe fifteen minutes?” Jamie says, gasping when Louis jerks his hand.

Louis likes to go for much longer, likes to take him apart with his tongue and wait until Jamie absolutely can’t hold it anymore. But fifteen minutes, that’ll do.

He lowers his head again, just barely mouthing the tip, and then —

The doorknob clangs against the wall.  _ Shit, shit, shit _ , Louis manages to think, wiping his mouth and wincing. Jamie knees his cheek in a hasty attempt to pull his pants back up, and Louis is so stunned by the interruption and the brief pain that he fish-mouths, staring straight at the wall and not daring to make eye contact with whoever walked in on them.

“We didn’t hear you pull in,” Jamie says, still trying to clean himself up.

“Obviously not,” Jamie’s mom says, her voice deathly quiet. “And — Louis?”

_ Shit _ , Louis thinks again, his mind on a loop. Of course she’d know who he is, when they’ve been on the same soccer team since they were kids and Mrs. Stevens has never missed a match.

“Louis, does your mom know about this?” she hisses, her voice gaining conviction. “You two,  _ having sex _ ?”

“We weren’t —” Jamie starts and then must realize that it wouldn’t make a difference.

Louis says nothing, does nothing, except stare at the wall.

“ _ Well _ ? I have half a mind to call her right now!”

“Mom, please,” Jamie begs, standing up and walking towards her. “He has nothing to do with this. You can be mad at me all you want, but Louis didn’t do anything.”

Mrs. Stevens snorts a hysterical laugh, backing out of the room. “I’m calling Jay, I’m calling Jay, she’ll know what to do.”

Desolately, George Michael sings,  _ “We could have been so good together, we could have lived this dance forever, but now who's gonna dance with me?” _

The door slams shut.

+

The cemetery is louder than Louis expects it to be. There’s no one around, but the birds are chirping and the trees are rustling and the rabbits are making soft imprints in the mud as they bounce around. Louis follows them with his eyes, thinking just how alive it is here, despite the thousands of skeletons under his feet. It’s not a bad place to spend the rest of eternity, all things considered.

Louis treads carefully, wary of the ground sinking in from all the rain they’ve gotten. He concentrates on the  _ squish, squish _ of his shoes instead of the heavy thudding in his chest. A crow cawing from above makes him jump, clutching his hands together and squeezing until he’s calm again.

This particular headstone is arguably the nicest one in the whole cemetery. It’s shaped like an angel with fat, ceramic tears streaming down her face. Under her clasped hands and nestled between her wings like a blanket, it reads

 

_ Harry E. Styles _

_ February 1, 1966 — November 17, 1983 _

 

Louis is shocked to see that someone has placed a miniature flag a few feet away, an upside down pink triangle contrasting with a heavy black background. It’s wind-tattered and sun faded, but it’s still standing. It would be impossible for him to  _ not _ know what it means, and everything it stands for, when he’s watched the news show images of pride parades in bigger cities, filled to the brim with eccentric, brave people. It seems like no one in San Francisco or Los Angeles or New York City is afraid to be who they are. Louis wishes he could have a fraction of the strength they do. Harry had it.

“Harry,” Louis says aloud. “I—I’m Louis Tomlinson. You probably don’t remember me, we didn’t talk very much. But you once told me that you liked my shoes? The truth is, that day I was wearing my sister Lottie’s pink, sparkly, too small shoes because I got mine all muddied up at soccer practice. So, uh, really you only liked Lottie’s shoes, not mine.”

Louis sits down and crosses his legs. There’s a ladybug making its way up Harry’s grave, traversing the engraved “Styles” and then crawling onto the angel’s wing, where it rests. Harry seems like the type of person who would let ladybugs crawl all over his arms, smiling.

“I wish that I had talked to you more,” Louis says. “I always thought you were cool, you know, when you would have all those girls asking you to prom, but none of them even hated you when you turned them down. I guess it makes sense, why you never dated anyone for more than a month.”

Louis thinks he might be overstepping some limits here, even if he is talking to a dead guy. He attempts to rectify it by saying, “I don’t — I don’t like girls either, like that.”

His words are so quiet that they get carried away by the wind almost instantly, covered up by the rustling of leaves and the birds chirping. There’s no guarantee that Harry heard it. Or that he’s even there to listen.

“What happened to you was —” Louis sucks in a breath, shaking his head. “I’m sure you don’t want to talk about that, yeah? I wouldn’t either. Truthfully, I don’t know why I’m here. I’m probably talking to myself, and that you’re busy doing whatever it is you do in the afterlife. I just wanted to say that … I hope you won’t think I’m selfish, when — when I end up where you are now. It  _ is _ selfish, it is, and I already hate myself enough when I think that you didn’t have a  _ choice _ , someone made that choice for you, but here I am ending everything because I’m too damn scared —”

He presses the palms of his hands to his eyes, pulling them back wet. “Shit,” he mumbles. “Shit, you probably don’t want me here, do you? I’m sorry. I’m leaving now.”

He stands up, brushing the dirt off his pants and taking a deep breath. “I just hope you won’t hate me, when you see me next,”  _ if _ he sees Louis next, that is. He has no idea what will happen when he dies. “Okay. I’m sorry. Goodbye, Harry.”

Louis turns and walks away, the cemetery seeming stilted and quiet compared to the liveliness when he arrived. It feels as if everything is hanging in the balance. Waiting for him.

+

The front door is squeaky from years of being slammed shut when Lottie was going through her pre-teen rebellious phase. Louis never had an affinity for door slamming and running away; he preferred sneaking out the window and kicking around a ball in the park until he was calm enough to slip back inside unnoticed. Even when he opens the door slowly, it makes a horrendous  _ eee _ noise and lets everyone know exactly where he is.

“Louis! I’m in the living room,” a voice calls, Louis’ heart racing. It’s only Lottie, not his mom. Not yet. “Help me, please, I dropped my cassette behind the entertainment center and can’t reach it.”

Louis takes a few breaths, his hand braced against the wall.

The living room is a mess, as usual, half-folded clothes strewn around the room along with homework that his sisters surely should have been doing but gave up on anyway. Lottie is in the corner, her arms stretching out behind the clunky, second-hand monstrosity that houses their television and the various video games they’ve collected. The boombox, too.

“How did it fall?” Louis asks, already shooing her away so he can try to reach it.

Sheepishly, Lottie says, “I recorded the song on the radio and when I tried to take the cassette out, I dropped it back there.”

“You know mom hates it when you do that,” Louis rolls his eyes. Lottie never times it correctly, so the song always gets cut off at the beginning and has some radio chatter at the end. Its downright obnoxious when she blasts it through the house.

He just barely reaches it, pulling it closer until it’s finally freed. He flips it over, looking at where Lottie has scrawled  _ for Tommy  _ in red marker.

“For Tommy, huh?” he smirks, handing it to her. “Who’s that?”

“A friend,” she blushes, setting the tape somewhere near her backpack. “He likes rock music.”

They drift to the couch, sitting under a blanket even though it isn’t quite chilly enough for them yet. Louis resists the urge to ask where their mom is, pushing his anxiety deep inside his chest so he can ask, instead, “Tell me about him?”

“Promise you won’t tell mom?” she holds out her pinky. Louis obliges. “Okay, well, he’s a senior — don’t look at me like that,” she giggles. Louis holds his hands up in surrender. “He’s really good. You’ll like him. He wants a big family and he keeps buying me stuff even though I  _ know _ he’s broke. He works at that pizza shop by our school.”

“And you’re together?” he raises his eyebrows.

“Sort of. We’ve only been on two dates. But he told me he likes rock music, like AC/DC, Guns N Roses and stuff. So I’ve been making him a mixtape and when I give it to him, I’ll ask him to be my boyfriend.”

Louis grins. “That’s my girl, making the first move.”

They trade gossip, shamelessly shit-talking a girl who had made fun of Lottie all last year. They talk more about Tommy. They complain about how miserable high school is. Lottie says, “Mom is getting restless, you haven’t brought anyone home since Hannah.”

Louis’ heart feels like a rock, sinking down into his stomach. He forces out an odd laugh and says, “Just haven’t found the right one yet.”

The tell-tale squeaking of the door announces his mom’s arrival. Before he can even properly panic, Lottie whispers, “Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you that mom sounded pissed on the phone earlier, then she told me she had to run some errands. So be extra nice to her today.”

“Sure,” Louis swallows, shutting his eyes. “I will.”

They can hear her hang her purse on the hook and drop her keys in the bowl. Louis is preparing himself, trying to look innocent and not like he’s about to shit his pants. When she comes around the corner into the living room, her expression is blank. He can’t read her.

“Louis, you’re home,” she says, nodding. “I need to talk to you. I’ll be in your room.”

Waiting until she’s out of earshot, Lottie slaps his arm, laughing. “What’d you do now? Sent to the principal’s office?”

“No, nothing like that,” he shakes his head, stepping out of the warm cocoon they’d made in the blankets. “Don’t worry about it, keep working on your lovey dovey mixtape.”

+

Louis was thirteen when his parents divorced.

As soon as he got off the bus after school, his mom had cornered him, a big smile on her face. “Let’s go out for ice cream, just the two of us,” she’d said. Louis didn’t protest — who would? — and they ate in amicable silence. When she dropped her spoon, her bowl empty, she finally said, “Baby, you know how me and Dad have been fighting a little bit?”

“Yeah,” Louis narrowed his eyes. “Why? Are you done fighting?”

“We’re getting a divorce,” she said, her voice gentle.

Louis remembers that she hadn’t even seemed sad. There was relief, there was guilt, there was sympathy, but there was no sadness in her eyes.

“Oh,” he said, his voice shaking. “Are we—who do we live with, then?”

She reached across the table and held his hand, slightly sticky from the ice cream, while she said, “You and Lottie and Fizzy are all staying with me, okay? The last thing I’ll  _ ever _ do is give you up.”

The way she had emphasized her words made it clear exactly who  _ was _ giving them up. 

Louis was still in shock the next day, when his dad never came home and instead wrote a note saying that he’s sorry and that he’ll call soon. He did call, a month later, but by then Louis had already made up his mind: his mom is the only one who’s ever stayed firmly in his corner, through  _ everything _ .

Louis is dreading the moment that that could change.

+

She’s sitting pensively on the edge of his bed, staring at her own hands. She doesn’t look up when he walks in, only sighs heavily. Louis sits next to her, putting some distance between them. Straight ahead of him, dangling off the wall, is the calendar with the giant red X. He had never wanted it to be that day so badly in his life.

When it becomes clear that she isn’t going to say anything first, he tentatively says, “Mom?”

Her shoulders are shaking, and he realizes belatedly that she’s crying. He’s made her  _ cry _ .

“Mom,” he says again, certain that he’s going to start crying too if she doesn’t rip the bandaid off and tell him she’s disappointed in him, or hates him, or wants him to move out. Or that she loves him anyway, though this sounds increasingly unlikely.

“I don’t want my baby to die.”

The words come out crisp, through her tears, and they feel like a dagger to Louis’ heart.

_ How could she know? _ He hasn’t spoken a single word about his plan to anyone, unless Harry Styles’ invisible soul counts. He hasn’t written a note, either; he’ll have plenty of time to do that the day of. There’s no possible way his mom could know.

“I’m not dying,” Louis says.

“Not yet, you aren’t,” she whispers, rubbing the makeup away under her eyes. “I can’t lose my baby to that—that disease. I  _ can’t _ .”

“What are you talking about?” Louis squeaks. “I don’t have a disease!”

“You could though, if you’re sleeping with random  _ men _ around the city! You know what happens, you get sick, and you waste away, and all we can do is watch you slowly die.”

She’s sobbing into her hands, and all Louis can think to do is put his arm around her. She leans into his embrace, wetting his shirt with her tears. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” she repeats to herself.

“Mom, I’m not sick,” he says, trying to be calm. He thinks this is what she needs to hear. “I won’t ever get sick like that, I won’t. I’ve only … Only with Jamie. I’m not — you’re acting like I’ve slept with half the city, but I haven’t. Jamie is my  _ boyfriend _ , mom.”

She quiets down slightly, and then looks at him with watery eyes. “I don’t care if you like boys,” she says. “There’s nothing wrong with that. I love  _ you _ , and if you’re gay, then that’s who you are. I can’t watch you get sick, though, or—or watch you end up like Anne’s baby.”

Louis forgets, sometimes, that his mom and Harry’s mom, Anne, were both on the school’s parent committees, and thus spent loads of time together every weekend, planning bake sales and organizing events. They were friends, back then. Before everything happened and Harry’s parents left the city.

“I can’t help it that people will hate me,” Louis’ voice cracks. “That’s their fault, not mine.”

His mom pulls him in for an extraordinarily long hug, holding Louis’ head on her shoulder and running her fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry I acted like that,” she says. She sounds like she means it, too, her voice full of remorse. “When Mrs. Stevens called me, I was so  _ angry _ , that you’d put yourself in danger like that. But I—I know you can’t help it.”

Louis’ stomach lurches. What she’s saying sounds like acceptance, but feels like something else entirely.

“I’ll try, okay?” she says slowly. “I’ll really try.”

Louis nods and manages a small smile. If trying is all he can get, he’ll take it.

+

“Is it true?”

Louis takes his eyes away from where a group of Sophomores are staring at him and laughing, to focus his attention on Liam. “What?”

“Is it true?” Liam repeats, his eyebrows furrowed and his face set with a deep frown. “Everyone’s talking about you and… Jamie.”

“Is  _ what _ true?” Louis asks, though he doesn’t need to be told. His heart sinks to the floor. 

“You and Jamie are  _ fucking _ ?”

“We’re not,” Louis insists. It’s not a lie, anyway—they’re not _ just _ fucking. “Where did you—let’s not talk about that right now.”

Liam has on his wounded puppy dog face. “Okay,” he says slowly. “After school, then?”

Louis nods and immediately extricates himself, making an excuse about asking a teacher a question before class. His heart is pounding hard enough that he can’t hear his own voice, can only hear the  _ thump, thump _ , and the sound of his heavy breathing.

He goes home early. There’s no way he could stay for the day—not when everyone  _ knows _ , and they’re all looking at him with confused and mildly disgusted stares.

His mom is at work, Fizzy and Lottie are still at school, of course, so he has a few hours to gather his thoughts and concentrate on not panicking. He fixes himself up a sandwich, and then his stomach rolls too much to allow him to eat it.

Three o’clock rolls around far too quickly, and Louis sits on the couch, paralyzed, until he hears a knock on the front door. 

Liam doesn’t wait for an answer before he pushes the door open, slinging his backpack across an armchair and standing expectantly in the middle of the room. “So? What the fuck is going on? Everyone keeps saying you’re a fag.”

Louis picks at the skin of his nails, biting his lip. “Why’re they saying that?”

Liam grows more agitated the longer Louis goes without answering his question, but he humors him anyway. “Jamie’s mom caught him fucking you and has been telling all the players’ moms.”

Though his heart is still pounding relentlessly, Louis scoffs. “He wasn’t fucking me.”

“So it’s not true?” Liam asks quietly, his face softening. “Man, that sucks. Everyone thinks it’s true.”

Louis sits on the couch, tucking his legs underneath him and focusing intently on the wall so he doesn’t have to look at Liam when he says, “Actually… I—I, well, it’s true.”

His voice cracks on the last word and he closes his eyes.

Liam is deathly silent, even his breathing has stopped. “What?”

“Jamie is—my boyfriend. I’m gay.”

“No you’re not. This isn’t funny,” he says, though he’s laughing nervously. “Come on, Lou, that’s stupid. You loved Hannah!”

“Yeah, as a, a friend,” Louis stutters.

“Bullshit,” Liam shakes his head. “That’s not—You’re not fucking gay!”

Louis flinches at his voice raising. There’s nothing he can say; all he can do is sit and listen to Liam’s tirade.

“Oh, so you had  _ one _ bad relationship and now you’re turning gay? Shit, man. I should call Hannah and set you up again, maybe that would put your head on straight.”

“Please don’t—”

Liam cuts him off. “Fuck, Louis, how many times have we showered together and slept in the same bed? You were probably staring at me the whole time and I just didn’t notice! You’ve got a crush on me, is that it? Is that why you’re telling me this?”

Louis couldn’t possibly worsen the feeling in his chest, a deep, painful ache right where his heart should be. There’s a sick kind of pleasure, too, at being right about how this situation would go. It couldn’t have gone any other way. Each word builds up in the back of his brain, spilling out into his bloodstream and pushing him closer to the edge.

He’ll be dead in four days—there’s no reason not to tell the truth.

“Maybe I did have a crush on you,” Louis says. “But not after this, I won’t.”

Liam is stunned into silence, his jaw tightening. His eyes turn cold and disbelieving as he stares right at Louis. “Don’t ever talk to me again, queer.”

+

Louis fakes the worst stomach flu of his life to get out of school the next few days, purposely making himself vomit in the bathroom when he knows his mom can hear, smearing some of her blush over his cheeks so he looks feverish. He doesn’t have to fake the dread written across his face.

She believes him even though she’s a nurse and should really know better. Or maybe she’s just smarter than Louis thought, and figured out the real reason why he wants to stay home. Either way, she doesn’t question it when Louis skips classes the rest of the week.

It means he has plenty of time to lie in bed and think about whether or not he really wants to go through with it. He can’t begin to imagine returning to school, facing all the inevitable taunting. He doesn’t want to see Liam’s face again, either.

Each day that passes brings him one day closer to the big red X, only strengthening his conviction to go through with it. He’ll miss his mom and sisters more than anything, and he’ll miss Liam, and Jamie, and his soccer team. He’ll miss video games and cheeseburgers from the diner and the sparkling lake deep in the woods.

None of it is enough to keep him here.

+

The day of, Louis pretends everything is normal. He gets out of bed when his alarm goes off, he puts on his clothes, he starts packing his backpack with all the textbooks he would need that day. When Lottie and Fizzy come down for breakfast, he hugs them so tight they complain about not being able to breathe, kisses them on the forehead, and then sends them off to the bus after they’ve eaten their cereal. If everything goes right, it’s the last time he’ll ever see them.

Louis’ mom works the morning shift today, but she’ll be home before the girls. It was important to Louis that Lottie or Fizzy wouldn’t be the one to find him. Not that hurting his mom like this is any better, but at least his sisters won’t have to remember how their brother looks when he’s dead.

“Liam is picking you up?” Louis’ mom asks while she pours her coffee into a thermos.

“Yup,” Louis nods, slinging his bag over his shoulder so he looks more convincing. He bends down and slips his shoes on, tying them slowly. “You don’t have to wait for me, he’ll be here any minute.”

“Alright,” she nods, kissing his cheek and leaving a light lipstick print. Any other day and Louis would wipe it off first thing. He just laughs. “I’ll see you after school, then. I’m making lasagna for dinner.”

“Okay,” Louis says, doing his best to stop his voice from shaking. “I love you, mom.”

“Love you too, baby,” she smiles, grabbing her purse. “See you.”

And then she’s gone, and Louis is alone, and he’s still not regretting his choice, but he’s a little bit scared anyway.

“Okay,” Louis says to himself, nodding. He drops his backpack, takes off his shoes, and starts heading towards the garage. “Okay.”

+

It’s dark.

Louis opens and closes his eyes, but there’s no light either way, so he keeps them closed.

_ Oh my god _ , he thinks.  _ I’ve gone blind. _

He wiggles his fingers. They move.  _ At least I’m not paralyzed _ .

When he lifts his arm, it bumps into something cold and hard: metal. A bed frame. Not his own bed frame, or any other that he recognizes.

“Hello?” he whispers, and the word echoes, progressively louder. He tests it again, yelling, “Hello!”

The sound is so loud that he has to slam his hands over his ears.  _ Dumbass _ , he berates himself. He stays silent, listening for any sort of movement. It’s complete nothingness. He can’t even hear his own breathing.

Breathing…

He puts his hand over his chest and tries to suck in a breath, but nothing comes in or out. Frantically, he tries to check his own pulse and comes up short. Not even a hint of blood rushing through his veins. “Holy shit,” he can’t help but say aloud. He instinctively covers his ears, but the words don’t echo this time. “What the fuck  _ is _ this? Am I dead?”

He opens and closes his eyes a few more times, becoming frustrated when still all he can see is eternal darkness. “ _ Fuck no _ , this better not be the afterlife, or I’ll—”

_ I’ll what? _ Louis thinks. He can’t do anything. He put himself here.  _ Oh god. _

He sits up, his head feeling empty and making him dizzy. “Please, please, please, if there’s anyone there—” he puts his head in his hands and wills away the sick feeling. “What do I do? This can’t be it, this can’t be all there is.”

It takes an absurdly long time for his head to stop spinning. When it does, Louis slowly swings his legs over the side of the bed, realizing that there’s not even a blanket there. His feet don’t touch the ground, don’t even brush against it, so he holds himself up on his elbows and tries to shimmy down further. There’s no telling how far away it is, and he’d quite rather sit on a mattress than end up flat on his ass on the cold ground. As he’s trying to pull himself back up, though, his hand slips and suddenly he’s sliding down the bed, too weak to grab ahold of the frame. He catapults forward, a scream being torn from his throat as he tumbles down, down,  _ down _ . He lands in a heap on a pile of something — God, he’s never wanted to see anything more in his life. It’s soft and pillowy, like feathers.

Louis checks his pulse again, sure that a traumatic event such as this would kick start it, but there’s still nothing. His wrist feels colder than it did before.

He puts his hand down beside him, touching the delicate feathers. Something just as soft curls around the entire expanse of his back, and he screams again. “Stop it, stop it, who are you?” he cries, wanting to sit up and run away, but without being able to see what’s in front of him, he thinks better of it. A feather tickles his cheek, and then he realizes what he’s been enveloped in.

Wings.

They’re huge, each wing bigger than Louis’ entire body, and they’re hugging him so tightly that if he  _ did  _ need to breath, he wouldn’t be able to.

“What are you doing?” Louis asks, his voice feeling wobbly. “I wanted to just disappear, or be in Heaven, if that’s real, but not  _ this _ . What is this?”

Nothing breaks the silence.

There’s no possible way for Louis to break free from this embrace, so he simply closes his eyes and wonders what will happen if he falls asleep.

Though his eyes are closed, he doesn’t miss the streak of light that dances across his eyelids. He opens them, scanning the area for more. Within a second, the room (so big that Louis can’t see the ends of it) lights up in golden sunlight. There are windows everywhere, no ounce of wall space left, but there’s nothing behind the glass except pure whiteness.

He looks behind him, but all he can see is the large mass of white feathers, no body attached to them.

“Hello?” he asks, rather uselessly. It seems that anyone who can hear him doesn’t think it’s necessary to respond.

“Hello, Louis.”

“Jesus Christ!” Louis yells, his eyes widening. He searches the room, but there’s no one there.

“No, not Jesus,” the voice, deep and slow, laughs. “You can call me Harry.”

“ _ Harry _ Harry?” Louis asks.

A shadowed figure materializes mere feet away from Louis. Although it’s been two years, he would recognize those curls anywhere; no other guy had ever had such curly, shiny hair.

“Not quite,” he says. “I’m only borrowing his charming good looks. It’s always better to greet people with someone familiar to them, and since you’ve, luckily, not lost many people in your life, Harry Styles was our closest choice.”

“Oh,” he says, his brain whirring.

“Actually, you have no brain at the moment,” Harry says.

_ You can read my mind? _ Louis thinks.

“In a sense. Remember, you don’t have a mind,” he answers. “When you return to your corporeal form, I won’t be able to hear your thoughts, exactly, but I will be keeping a close eye on you.”

“Return to my—” Louis balks. “No, I’m dead. I’m supposed to be dead.”

“Dead? Yes. Supposed to be? No.”

The wings tighten around Louis, as if he’d try to run. As if he  _ could _ run. The brightness of the room is starting to make his head throb—peculiar, if he doesn’t have a brain. He wants this to be over with. If they’re going to slap him back into his corporeal form, can’t they just do it already?

“We’ll get to that,” Harry laughs. Then he takes a step back. Appearing in his place is something Louis has never seen before. It resembles a TV, but a hundred times bigger and paper thin. Louis can vaguely see through it, even. “In every universe, of course, people die. In this universe, you were meant to live a full life. Accidents do happen, and we afforded you too much freedom this time.”

The screen flashes black and then his mom’s face fills the screen.

“No, no, I don’t want to watch this,” Louis begs, tears already welling up in his eyes. “Please, stop it!”

Harry doesn’t respond. It’s clear that this could never be the real Harry; he wouldn’t treat him like this.

Louis’ mom is pushing her sunglasses onto her head, walking towards the house. When the weather is nice, she walks to work, and on this day, the weather is fantastic. Sunny and warm with the perfect kind of breeze. She looks happy. She must have had a good day at work. Louis doesn’t want to watch this.

When she gets close enough to the garage door, she wrestles her keys out of her pocket and then stops. There’s a note on the door. 

“Oh god,” Louis whispers, wanting to shut his eyes, but something forces them open. When he tries to look away, the screen moves with him. “Stop, stop, stop!”

She reaches for the note and plucks it off with her perfectly manicured nails.

_ Call the police and tell them it’s carbon monoxide poisoning. I don’t want you to get hurt, please don’t go in the garage. There’s a real note for you inside the car, ask them to get it for you. I love you and the girls, Louis. _

Her face morphs from confusion to pure horror, her mouth dropping as she ignores Louis’ wishes and starts to open the big garage door, visibly holding her breath. She thinks better of it before it’s finished opening, and while crying loud enough to alert the whole neighborhood, she runs inside to dial the police. She has a death grip on the telephone as she blurts, “I need help! My son, my son, he’s in the garage and he left a—a note, saying it’s carbon monoxide, just please—” she rattles off their address, pacing around the kitchen as far as the twisted cord allows her to. They keep her on the phone, asking her when this happened and how long her son has been in the garage. “I don’t know, I don’t—I was at work, I didn’t know!” At this point, Louis knows, he’s already been dead for hours. He’d done it as soon as she left, not knowing how long it would take. The last thing he wanted was for someone to walk in halfway through.

They ask her what kind of car it is. “It’s a station wagon from the 70s, I think? We borrowed it from my dad just recently. I don’t know anything about it,” she’s alternating between tapping her fingers on the counter and tugging on strands of her hair.

A fire truck arrives first, an ambulance trailing behind. Two men carry a stretcher out of the back, rolling it up to the front of the house, as two firefighters in full gear enter the garage. The men from the ambulance tell his mom to go sit in the grass, away from the garage. She doesn’t sit so much as collapse, her knees digging into the dirt. 

Nevertheless, she’s close enough to hear them open the car door, examine his body, and say, “Dead on arrival.”

His mom’s resounding wail is ear piercing, and Louis once again tries to shut his eyes but he can’t. He’s forced to watch as she scrambles over to the garage, attempting to go inside but being held back. “Ma’am, there’s too much fumes in the air, it isn’t safe,” he says urgently. “We know this is difficult, be we need you to stay calm.”

“Well—do  _ something _ then! It can’t—it can’t be too late!” she shouts, her face a mess of running make up.

Neighbors are starting to step onto their front porches, searching for the cause of the commotion, holding their mouths in shock when they put the pieces together.

“We’re very sorry, ma’am. Your son has already entered rigor mortis; he’s been dead for at least four hours.”

She starts to heave, holding her stomach and vomiting on the concrete. She coughs, her whole body shaking. She’s trying to say something, but the only thing coming out of her mouth is more bile. “The note, the note,” she finally gasps, her face crumpling once more. “He said—the note.”

One of the men reenters the garage and retrieves it, handing it to her gracefully. It took Louis two hours to write, having drafted it and redrafted it, knowing that this will be the last thing his family will ever hear from him. He didn’t want it to be about his sadness, or about what he was trying to escape. He wanted it to be a remembrance of everything he’ll miss. People: his mom, his sisters, Liam, Jamie. Other things: sunrises, the sound of birds flying through the trees in the mountains, the way cold water feels on a hot day. Not a single word in the note mentions death or depression or anger. He writes a page for Liam, that he forgives him and that this isn’t his fault. One for Jamie, saying how much he loves him and always will. Three for his mom and sisters, about family vacations and important dance recitals and game nights that he’ll miss. To all of them, he asks not to blame themselves. He asks them to move on. He asks them not to forget him.

“After they took your body away, your mom got in bed and didn’t leave for days,” Harry says. “A grief counselor was assigned to your house, to help take care of your sisters and her while she was in that emotional state. What you’re about to see is current. It’s been a month since your death. Your mom decided to start working again, to keep her mind off of things. It’s her first day back.”

The screen goes black again, and then there’s Lottie, sitting on the floor in the bathroom. She’s crying harder than Louis’ ever seen her, her entire face blotchy and red. She hasn’t bothered with makeup.

She’s writing something on regular notebook paper. She stands up and tapes it to the outside of the door— _ I’m so sorry. I can’t write a good letter but I love you all _ —and shuts it behind her.

As she reaches for a rope and starts to stand up, cold dread fills up Louis’ body. “Stop!” he screams, thrashing around. The wings grow tighter and tighter until he’s completely immobile. “Make her stop, make her stop!”

“We can’t do that,” Harry shakes his head. “But everything will be righted soon enough.”

“How?” Louis cries. “I’ll do anything.”

Harry nods. The screen goes black again, leaving Lottie completely and utterly alone in her last moments. Louis can only pray that someone will stop her before she can follow through.

“I’m sorry to tell you, but that won’t happen,” Harry says. “Your sister Charlotte is in our care now. She’s in her own holding room currently, it’s similar to this one.”

“No! No, no no,” Louis screeches. He kicks his feet at the wings surrounding him, scratches them and tries to turn over, but they don’t budge. “If you’ve got so much power, bring her back! That’s not what—She wasn’t supposed to—”

“Correct, again. She wasn’t supposed to die today,” Harry nods. “But don’t lose hope yet, Louis. You haven’t even heard my offer.”

Louis has to refrain from spitting in Harry’s face. He must have heard his thoughts, as he takes a precautionary step back. “You seem to think we have an unlimited supply of power, yes? That’s what most people assume. It’s not the truth. What we do for you is… Think of it as an outline to an essay. We give you the major moments; your birth, your education level, your career, or lack of career, your children, and ultimately your death. Anything you do in between is your choice. Sometimes, we make mistakes. We give you too much freedom. It’s not unusual, for a person or two to twist fate within their universe. What  _ is _ unusual is to have three people do it all within two years.

“Three people?” Louis asks. There’s too much information for him to process, particularly in the fact that there are multiple universes, so he focuses on what he knows. “Me, Lottie, and…?”

“Harry Styles,” he says solemnly. “Rather, Harry didn’t twist fate, the person who killed him did.”

“Murder happens all the time,” Louis says. “You mean he wasn’t supposed to die?”

“No, not that day. Harry’s killer was on a course to become a murderer, but he evidently felt ready to start sooner than we planned.”

“You plan for people to become murderers?” he can’t help the judgement seeping into his tone. “Well that’s just great, isn’t it? What’s the point? What’s the fucking point of any of this?”

“That, I can’t answer.”

“Great,” Louis says again, laughing until he starts feeling too dizzy. “That’s amazing. I feel so honored to be given this gift of meaningless life.”

“There you again, throwing out insults before I’ve given you your choice.”

Louis shuts his mouth tightly. It’s bullshit, all of it, but he loves Lottie, and he loves his mom and Fizzy, who will have to live the rest of their lives without the two of them if he doesn’t accept the offer Harry is giving him.

Harry smiles. “Thank you. Now, there are only two options here. The first one is that we restart the entire universe. You will never have existed, and neither will your family. It will go back to the very start, with only two humans on Earth,” Harry says. This looks to be exciting for him. “It’s quite beautiful to watch, it really is. This option is not ideal, however. We can’t erase our mistakes in this way very often, and since a few of my companions use this as their first choice when they ruin their own universes… It simply isn’t practical.”

“Okay,” Louis says, pretending that he understands even a fraction of what’s going on. “Then what’s the other choice?”

“We send you back, as you were, to October, 1983. It will be your responsibility to ensure Harry Styles’ safety, as well as your own,” he looks at Louis pointedly. “Suicide is not an option, or you’ll be sent right back here. And who  _ knows _ what could happen if you do it again—it’s a chain reaction, you see. We simply can’t afford it.”

“I won’t kill myself,” Louis promises. And he  _ won’t _ , not if it means Lottie has to die too. He can suffer a lifetime of pain to keep his mom and sisters smiling. “Is that it? All I have to do is keep him from dying?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “You say that as if it’s an easy task.”

“Won’t it be? All I have to do is keep him in my sights on November 17th.”

Harry smiles serenely, like he knows something Louis doesn’t. In fact, he knows a lot of things Louis doesn’t. “We’ll see about that, Louis,” he says. “Now, I have to warn you. When you return to 1983, not everything will be the way you left it. I’m already in the process of adjusting some people’s, hm,  _ outlines, _ for lack of a better word; I certainly won’t be allowing another mistake. That being said, are you ready to go back?”

He makes a movement as if he’s going to walk away.

“Wait!” Louis yells. The wings around him are already loosening. He feels the feathers, one by one, start to disappear into shimmering light. If he weren’t so anxious, he’d stop and appreciate their beauty. “What about Lottie? In the holding room?”

“She’ll return safely to your universe, with no memory of 1984 or 1985.”

Louis closes his eyes in relief. “But I’ll remember?”

“Of course. How else would you accomplish your mission?”

“Right,” Louis says. “One more thing. If me killing myself wasn’t in my outline, what was? What did I do wrong?”

Harry seems genuinely surprised by this question. He tugs on his lip, deep in thought, before finally saying, “I suppose I can tell you, considering your outline will be updated now. You  _ were _ to attempt suicide. You were, however, supposed to gather enough willpower to stop yourself. I believe the reason you went through with it is because of the way Liam reacted when you came out to him. That was his freedom, not his outline.”

Louis bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t want to think about the disgust in Liam’s eyes, the flash of pure betrayal after Louis confessed the truth. It wasn’t the reason why Louis killed himself, no, but he has to admit that he might not have had the courage to do it without Liam’s extra push. “And… Will he react the same when I go back?”

“You’ll have to find out,” Harry winks. His face stays neutral, but his eyes are considerably kinder. Louis doesn’t think he’ll have to worry about it. “Now, ready?”

“Okay,” Louis nods. “Yes, I’m ready.”

The last thing he sees is Harry’s dimple popping out in a smile before a blast of pure whiteness forces him to shut his eyes.

+

Louis has a splitting headache when he awakes. When he blinks his eyes open, he sees Liam’s arm—less muscular than it will be in two years, but still definitely Liam’s—wrapped around Louis’ waist. He’s drooling all over Louis’ pillow, but 1983 Louis probably sniffed it after Liam left that day. Embarrassingly, Louis can remember doing just that on multiple occasions.

“Li,” he says, shaking his shoulder. “Liam, wake up.”

“Wha’?” he jolts, wiping the drool off his lips.

“Where were we last night?” Louis asks. He can’t tell if his head is pounding after a night of drinking or after dying and being brought back to life.

“Right here, man. We had the house to ourselves?”

Louis nods and laughs. “Obviously. Was just making sure you didn’t get too drunk last night.”

Liam shoves him, rolling his eyes. “We both had  _ one _ glass of your mom’s fancy wine. You think I’m a light weight?”

Louis rolls back into his original place, tucked against Liam’s chest, and his breath catches at the proximity. This Liam is younger and skinnier, with bushy, curly hair and a too round face that he hasn’t quite grown into yet. It doesn’t matter, though. Louis is absolutely gone for any version of Liam there is. He’d probably be gone for an 80 year old Liam Payne, even.

The sound of Liam’s heart beat is loud against Louis’ chest. Their faces are absurdly close together, so close that Louis can feel his breath hitting his chin.

“All good?” Liam asks gently.

Though he has no idea what Liam is referring to, Louis nods.

And then.

Liam kisses him.

There’s no time to process what’s happening, and all Louis can think is _ that bastard! _ Harry didn’t tell him that he’d make Liam want him back, that his childhood (and teenage) crush would finally be lying in bed with him and  _ kissing him _ . Louis assumed that Harry would change small details, like the classes he’s given or the kind of music he listens to, so it wouldn’t feel like living the same two years all over again. Not  _ this _ !

And then all these thoughts slip away, replaced by the feeling of Liam’s plump lips against his own. He presses closer, running his hands over Liam’s shoulder blades and down his back. Liam’s hands go directly to Louis’ ass, and he can’t help but giggle into the kiss.

Liam’s brown eyes are sparkling when Louis pulls away. “What? It’s a nice butt.”

“Oh, I know,” Louis teases. “Did I say you could touch it, though?”

“You weren’t complaining last night,” Liam raises his eyebrows. “Come on, Lou, we’ve got all day alone.”

_ So this is a reoccurring thing. Okay. That’s okay. _ Louis is not freaking out.

All of the sudden, he wants to call Jamie and ask what happened. Did they break up? Were they never dating? Louis would never cheat on anyone, let alone someone like Jamie, but if Faux-Harry put it into his outline, then he wouldn’t have a choice, would he? Either way, he can’t have sex with Liam until he finds out what happened, no matter how much he wants to. And  _ God _ , does he want to. 

“Lets just… Cuddle,” Louis suggests, hoping that this doesn’t cross any lines that he isn’t aware of. “What if Mom comes home early? She doesn’t need to see all this.”

He slaps his own butt for emphasis, and Liam laughs so hard that his eyes crinkle up, so it’s worth it. With his voice light and happy, Liam says, “Fine, we’ll cuddle. Smurfs is probably still on if you want to watch it.”

“When would I ever turn down Saturday morning cartoons?” Louis asks, and smacks a kiss on Liam’s cheek just because he can.

+

Liam kisses him five more times over the course of the weekend, and it takes all of Louis’ strength to separate after a respectable few seconds. He needs to find out what happened between him and Jamie so he can let himself enjoy this pure bliss.

“Hey Li?” he asks, when they’re both sitting on the kitchen counter with mugs of coffee in their hands, feet dangling. “Do you remember what time Mom said she’d be home?”

“Three, right? But then she’s picking up the girls,” Liam says, glancing at the clock. “Why, did you change your mind? We’ve still got another condom left.”

He wiggles his thick eyebrows, and Louis can’t help the butterflies that erupt in his tummy. “No, we only have an hour, then,” Louis says. “Besides, I like talking to you. You’re — you’re still my best friend, you know? No matter what.”

As Liam smiles and gives him a wet kiss on the cheek, he remembers Liam from before, leaning in so close to Louis’ face that he could feel his breath while he spat,  _ “Don’t ever talk to me again, queer.” _

That’s not this Liam, but it’s hard to forget.

“Love you,” Liam mumbles, his lips against the soft skin under Louis’ ear. “You’ll always be my best friend.”

_ Not when you were straight and I was gay _ , Louis wants to say. It wouldn’t be fair, though. Not only would Liam not understand, but he’s not even responsible for what happened. That was a different Liam entirely.

Faux-Harry really did turn his life upside down with just one adjustment. Louis can’t complain, when he’s got the love of his life kissing him on the kitchen counter (and everywhere else in the house).

They eventually make their way out to the backyard for Louis to smoke — a habit he will kick in Junior year, and one Liam never took up. The air is crisp and the trees are nearly bare. It must be mid October, then. Faux-Harry didn’t give him much time at all to make friends with real Harry before his time runs out. He’s already starting to feel anxious and he hasn’t even talked to Harry yet.

“You know Styles?” Louis asks timidly, blowing smoke away from Liam.

“Yeah, Harry?” Liam nods. “‘Course I do. I feel real sorry for him… I always wish I could say something when people are beating on him, but then they’d come for  _ me _ .”

Right. It’s October, meaning Harry came out last month.

Louis doesn’t remember much of how Harry was treated. He tried to avoid it all, blocking the sound of the slurs out with his new Walkman or burying himself in his textbook; lying to himself that he’s so enraptured in Biology that he can’t even see Harry getting shoved against the lockers. 

Louis feels like a terrible person.

“Do you think he’s okay?” Louis wonders. “Like. Should we do something?”

“Like what, come out with him?” Liam sighs. “We couldn’t do that. Harry is getting enough shit as it is, I don’t want us to go through that too.”

Louis’ head throbs. It’s so  _ fucking weird _ to hear Liam talk about gay issues like he has anything to do with it.  _ He does, now, _ Louis has to remind himself.

“Do you think it would be different? If we were born in New York … Would it be different?”

Louis takes one last puff of the cigarette, wishing that it didn’t feel so good and promising himself that he’ll quit again, and then stubs it out under his Converse. Liam shrugs and says, “I doubt it. Stonewall wasn’t  _ that _ long ago, you know? If Stonewall was a kid, he’d just now be starting high school.”

“Weirdo,” Louis laughs. “If Stonewall were a kid, his straight classmates would be beatin’ him up right now.”

“I saw Harry go see the nurse yesterday,” Liam says, ducking his head, almost like he’s ashamed. “His lip was all swollen and bleeding. Maybe we should do something. We could just — be his friend. I’m sure he needs one right now.”

Harry never had a hard time making friends. The first time Louis had noticed Harry, he’d had his arm draped over a pretty brunette and his other hand locked with a sweet looking blonde. He didn’t cheat, ever. And he probably didn’t date half the girls that everyone said he did; Harry was a flirt, in the truest sense of the word. The old, bald math teacher could’ve had a crush on Harry and no one would have been surprised.  _ Everyone _ liked Harry. Until he told them the truth. Though Louis can’t remember the details of Harry’s short few months between coming out of the closet and dying, he can remember that one day, Harry was laughing with a huge group of football players, and the next, he was sitting alone in the library, doing nothing except tapping his fingers anxiously. Word spread fast in their little town, and even if someone hadn’t minded Harry being gay, they  _ did _ mind the teasing they’d get for hanging out with him.

Social suicide, they called it.

“That’s a good idea,” Louis says. “I can talk to him first. People already think I’m gay anyway.”

“No they don’t,” Liam says.

“Oh, so the rest of the soccer team calls me Twinkie because I resemble a delicious dessert packed with cream?”

Liam snorts, his eyes crinkling up again. It’s gorgeous.

“Anyway, I don’t care what anyone thinks anymore. When we’re older and we move out, none of this shit will matter.”

“Just have to survive high school first,” Liam says.

He has no idea how truthful that is.

+

Apparently in this 1983, Liam is on slightly better terms with his parents, meaning that he leaves on Saturday night after they watch SNL together, going back home and leaving Louis alone with nothing else to do. Louis’ mom comes back late, just after Liam leaves, but she brings a couple burgers home with her.

Lottie walks in the room first, swinging her overnight bag around. She’s  _ so _ young, her face completely bare of all the make up she’ll grow to like, and wearing simple, childish clothing. Louis drops the burger that his mom handed him on the table, rushing forward to trap her in the tightest hug he can manage. “I love you, Lottie,” he says, her blonde hair tickling his nose. “So, so much.”

“Ew,” she says, pushing him off. She’s holding an affronted expression, but he can tell she’s vaguely pleased, too. Begrudgingly, she says, “Love you too, loser. I was only gone for a night!”

It’s hard to connect this Lottie to the one who, just hours ago in Louis’ time, was tying a rope around her neck. Louis shakes his head. There’s no use in thinking about the past—or, well, the future. That’s what he’s here to change, after all.

“And I love you,” Louis says to Fizzy, who seems to be trying to escape without being noticed. He pulls her in for a hug too, kissing her cheek to make her giggle, and then letting her go.

Louis resolves to never hurt them again. 

It isn’t until later that night when it creeps back up on him, the unbreakable, unwavering sadness. He was so busy, before, planning everything out to the very last detail, that he didn’t get a chance to linger on his feelings. He hadn’t had any time to process what happened when he came out to Liam. It doesn’t even matter that this new Liam is, apparently, in love with him. It doesn’t change what he said. 

Louis stares at the ceiling, paralyzed.

It’s all catching up to him. That there’s  _ no way out _ of this. He’d exhausted his resources and got sent right back to where he was before: hating himself, lonely, and gay in a place where that fact could get him thrown in a dumpster like a half eaten meal. He certainly feels like he’s missing half of himself, but he can’t begin to guess where the other half would be.

He misses Jamie.

All he ever thought he wanted was Liam’s love. Ever since Louis learned what the word  _ crush _ meant, he knew he had one on Liam. Even when he found Jamie—when he kissed him and called him his boyfriend and said he loved him—even then, he wanted Liam. Like a parasite, Liam had crawled into his vital organs and stayed there, feeding off him.

And now … He  _ has _ Liam. But he misses Jamie more than ever.

This is one thing he can fix, though.

He slips on his shoes, grabbing his skateboard, and tiptoes out of the house. It’s frigid in the nighttime, with very little light except the glowing moon to guide him. He hums  _ Part Time Lover _ just loud enough to block out the eerie sounds of the owls, before remembering that that song hasn’t even been written yet. This is going to be harder than he thought.

The front of Jamie’s house is dark and silent, but when he goes around the side, he can see that Jamie’s light is still on. The blinds are drawn, but the slats are tilted up, allowing the tiniest bit of a view to his room. Louis props his skateboard against the wall, about to knock on it when he hears it. A girl’s laugh.

Louis doesn’t mean to be a creep, but he can’t help himself when he peers in through the blinds to see Jamie sitting on the edge of the bed while some girl climbs up next to him, wearing just a bra.

_ Okay. _

_ It’s okay. _

Jamie has a girl.  _ So what? _ Louis has Liam now.

Louis’ stomach lurches as he takes his skateboard back, breaking into a fast run, away from Jamie’s house and away from everything they did together. It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t meant to be, or else Faux-Harry would have let him keep Jamie. Clearly, fate doesn’t want them to be together.

It doesn’t hurt any less.

Louis goes in through the garage, because it’s quieter than the squeaky front door, and tries his hardest not to look at the car while he walks in. All he wants is a repeat of events. He wants to get in the front seat, start the car, and wait until he drifts off. He wants to disappear. Why couldn’t they let him disappear?

In his own bed, he feels stupid. Stupid for thinking it would be the same between himself and Jamie. Stupid for thinking Liam was all he needed. Stupid for thinking that death would save him the heart break. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He wishes he’d never told Liam he was gay. Maybe he wouldn’t be so miserable now, if he was still thinking that Liam loves him no matter what. In any universe.

Louis curls up on his side, clutching his pillow. Nothing feels right.

Maybe once he saves Harry’s life, they’ll let him die again.  _ Really _ die, this time. Or have never existed at all.

+

“Hey, fag, watch where you’re going!”

Louis’ eyes dart towards the noise, landing on Harry. His curls are all over his face as he trips and falls, his knees making an audible  _ thud _ on the ground. The guys cackle, kicking his thighs so he falls over again, his arms flying out to catch himself this time. They start to back away, still sneering and laughing among themselves.

Harry takes a few audible breaths before pushing himself up, adjusting his backpack on his shoulders, and standing.

Louis means to leave, to talk to Harry a different time, but then Harry makes eye contact and smiles sheepishly. Louis smiles back, and his feet are rooted to the floor.

It’s shocking. Harry is a dead man, he’s gone. Louis saw pictures of his body being carried out of the dumpster, watched the news play interviews with Harry’s devastated parents, saw the caution tape that no one ever took down, separating the small string of bars in town and the empty parking lot where it happened. Where a trail of blood led from a parking space to the dumpster. Where Harry’s clothes had been torn off and never found. Where Harry had stab wounds in his thighs and stomach, blunt force trauma to his head, yet his official cause of death had been strangulation with the killer’s bare hands.  _ A crime of passion _ , they called it. Spur of the moment, unplanned, pure rage. 

Louis never bought it. Harry went to that parking lot to meet someone, someone he knew. Why else would anyone walk seven miles from their house to an empty, creepy parking lot far enough away for no sound to be heard in town? The poor kid probably thought he’d be meeting a hook up, some guy who didn’t want his wife to know or didn’t want to be arrested for gross indecency. Harry always seemed too trusting, that’s why he ended up dead.

Except he’s not dead, he’s here. Standing in front of Louis with a blush on his cheeks and carpet burn on his palms. He’s saying, “Hey, I’m Harry.”

“Louis,” he says. He feels wholly unprepared for this.

“Woah, those shoes are ace!” Harry grins, pointing at Louis’ feet.

And  _ shit _ , he forgot he put Lottie’s sparkly, pink sneakers on to catch Harry’s attention. How could he forget, when they’re cutting off his circulation so badly?

“Uh, thanks,” Louis says, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re actually my sisters, but you know. Who says boys can’t wear pink?”

“Don’t let the guys hear you say that,” Harry sighs. “They’ll have your head on a stick for even talking to me.”

“They don’t bother me. They can think what they want.”

Harry looks like he’s about to say something, when Louis sees Jamie out of the corner of his eye. He’s walking hand in hand with the same girl from last night, this time, thankfully, wearing a shirt. Louis can’t help but snort at the sight of Jamie with a girl. He was just about as gay as they come, before. Is he straight now? Just pretending to be? Or bisexual?  If he’s pretending, he does a good job hiding it, with the way he’s smiling at her.

When he tears his eyes away from them and back to Harry, he’s looking at him with his eyebrows raised. “You know him?” he asks.

Louis bites the inside of his cheek. “You could say that.”

Harry holds his eyes on Louis’ for ages before breaking out into a smile. “I think we’ll be great friends, Louis.”

+

“Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ ,” Liam gasps, hands holding onto Louis’ waist with a death grip. He holds onto Liam’s shoulders and rotates his hips, his breath coming in short from the exertion. “God, Louis, holy shit.”

And all he’s doing is  _ grinding _ against Liam’s clothed lap, but Liam is moaning and groaning like he’s a cat in heat. It’s half endearing and half annoying, and entirely surprising. Louis never would have pegged Liam for being loud during sex. 

Jamie never asked for a lap dance before. They’d done almost everything, but not this. It must be a regular thing for Louis to give Liam lap dances because he hadn’t been shy at all—as soon as they got home and made sure no one else was in the house, Liam took him to bed and said, “Wanna put on a show?”

“The TV is in the living room,” Louis had said, confused.

Liam laughed and shook his head. “You’re so funny. That’s why I love you.”

He caught on quick, as soon as Liam started taking off his belt.

After a few minutes of strip teasing and barely grazing Liam’s dick with his hands, he’s now perched on his lap. He can hardly believe what he’s doing—one moment he’s well and truly  _ dead _ , and the next he’s having all his hopes and dreams made right in front of him. Or, right below him. It feels good, feels great, but having spent so long building Liam up in his head, he thinks that nothing could compare to that. And on top of it all, he misses Jamie. He shared his life with him for three years, and he feels like he caught the love of his life cheating on him last night. Because of everything, fucking Liam feels more like rebound sex than making love to his boyfriend.

“Oh my god, Lou. You’re so good at this,” Liam groans. He’s sweating, and Louis takes a short break to lift his shirt off his body. He’s still as attractive as ever, his abs straining. “I don’t—I don’t want to come yet, ‘til I’m in you.”

“Oh,” Louis says, his movements faltering. There’s no reason why he should say no, now that he knows it won’t hurt anyone. His head may not be in the right place, but he’s wanted Liam Payne’s dick inside him since before he knew it was even possible for dicks to go there. So he says, “Yeah, baby, where’s the condom?”

+

They have just enough time to make themselves look decent before Louis’ mom comes back, Fizzy and Lottie in tow. They both smell a little like come and sweat, and Louis’ ass will be sore for days, so they avoid going downstairs at all. Around dinner time, Louis’ mom cracks the door open without warning, making a face at the smell (but thankfully not mentioning it), and asks what they want to eat.

“I actually have to get back home, Jay,” Liam says, smiling politely. “But thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow, Lou.”

He kisses Louis on the cheek, making his mouth drop open in shock. His mom is  _ right there _ . Watching them. Liam, unbothered, slides off the bed and leaves.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Jay asks, her eyebrows crinkling together.

“I—” his breath is shaky. “You  _ know _ ?”

If he had more time, he’d think of a more eloquent question, one that doesn’t reveal that he has no idea what’s going on in his own life because he’s in over his head and  _ shit _ , it’s finally sinking in that he, alone, is responsible for saving this  _ entire universe _ .

His mom comes inside and shuts the door. “Love, you never had to tell me. Liam isn’t very subtle, for one, and you’re my son. I know you like the back of my hand.”

“Oh,” he says, dumbfounded. Visions of his mom shouting about AIDS and hate crimes all fade away, replaced by—this. “You don’t care? You’re not scared I’ll die? Get—Get  _ gay cancer _ ?”

She sighs and pulls him into a long hug. “I watch the news, I know all about AIDS and if you don’t think I’m scared for you, then you’re wrong,” she shakes her head. “But. They’re doing so much research. They know if you have safe sex, you won’t get it. And I trust that you’ll take care of yourself.”

Louis’ always used a condom anyway, even before the word “AIDS” had ever been spoken, purely for hygienic purposes. But he doesn’t plan to tell his mom that he’s been having sex with Jamie since he was fourteen. Or has he? It’s possible that Louis and Jamie have never even talked, now.

“I love you,” Louis says, bumping his nose on her cheek. “You’re the coolest mom ever.”

“I’ll remember that next time you call me lame,” she laughs, wiggling out of his embrace. “Now, what do you want for dinner?”

+

_ The moon is striking, bright against the starless, inky sky. The clouds have been rolling in since midday, threatening a horrific storm. Harry’s mom already put cans of food and bottled water in the basement, in case they need to spend the night there. He promised her he’d be home by one in the morning, well before the storm will hit. _

_ Harry lazily drags his fingers over the chain link fence, listening to the light rattling instead of the distant wolves howling. When he was a kid, he was terrified of the dark. Even a night light wasn’t enough for him; he used to sleep with all his lights flipped on. The only reason he ever stopped is because his mom told him how much money it cost, and that they wouldn’t be able to afford the fancy sneakers he wanted for his birthday if he kept leaving the light on. The residual fear of the dark is still there, deep in his chest, making his hands sweat. _

_ If he listens hard, which he’s trying not to do, he can just hear the sounds of music filtering from the bar down the road.  _ See, you’re not alone _ , he tells himself. _

_ He hums nonsensically, just to fill the relative silence, until it forms a tune on it’s own. He indulges himself in a song; he might as well, if he’s going to get stood up. It looks like that’s what’s happening, considering he’s been waiting almost an hour and there’s still no one in sight. _

_ “Is this real life?” he sings, a self deprecating smile on his face. “Is this just fantasy?” _

_ He remembers when he and his mom sang this song together one sunny morning, waiting for their pancakes to cook. He closes his eyes and imagines that he’s there, belting his heart out while his mom laughed gleefully. _

_ He sings the next verse louder—no one can hear him, anyway. Maybe he should come here more often, where no one will complain about him being off key, like his friends do. _

_ He even mimics a microphone when he gets to, “Mamaaa, ooh. Didn’t mean to make you cry! If I’m not back again this time tomorrow, carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters.” _

_ He’s about to start the next line when the unmistakably sound of tires on gravel cuts him off. His eyes shoot open, his heart hammering in his chest. He slowly makes his way over, his feet crunching on the ground. The window rolls down. _

_ “Uh, hi,” Harry says, smiling despite his fear. “Um. It’s me, Harry, if you can’t tell.” _

_ The man in the car has an unreadable expression on his face. _

_ “Actually, I changed my mind,” he says, opening the driver’s door. “I don’t want this.” _

_ “O-Oh,” Harry says, clearing his throat. “Well, that’s fine. I’ll just walk home. It—It was nice seeing you. Sorry it couldn’t work out.” _

_ He takes a step back, shivering against a gust of air. It’s probably for the best, anyway. The storm seems to be rolling in sooner than the weather forecasted, and he’d hate to walk all the way home when there’s a chance of a tornado. As he’s turning around, ready to hit the road, he feels an arm snake around his waist. He opens his mouth to speak, just as he notices a glint of silver in the man’s hand, his face impassive. Cold. “What—” he starts, his breath escaping him in an instant as the sharp blade plunges into his stomach. _

+

Louis wakes up in a cold sweat, clutching his stomach. He has just enough sense to get up and run towards the bathroom before he’s heaving, sobs ripping through him. He can still  _ feel _ it, the pain, the fear, the desperation.

And that was only the  _ beginning _ for Harry. They said that they know he’d been conscious throughout the consequent stabbings and the beatings based on the crime scene being littered with Harry’s bloody handprints where he’d repeatedly tried to crawl away and fight off his attacker.

Louis must be making awful noises, retching into the toilet and crying twice as loud.

There’s a shuffling noise in front of the door, Louis’ mom rushing in and kneeling beside him. She puts a careful hand on his back and whispers, “I’m here, I’m here, you’re okay.”

Louis can’t take his hand off his stomach, still feeling the agony, the instinct to apply pressure and stop the blood. “Momma,” he whines helplessly, leaning over and gagging again. He barely registers the feeling of her hand stroking his back comfortingly, as he makes one more attempt at puking his guts out, but only dry heaves. She helps him sit up, leaning against the edge of the bathtub.

“What happened, love?” she asks.

His hands are shaking uncontrollably—his whole body is. “Nightmare,” he says.

She coos at him and holds his hands until he can take deep breaths without feeling like he’s going to jump out of his skin. “It was only a dream,” she says. “Not real. Whatever happened, it isn’t real, baby.”

He wishes that he could believe that. He wishes that he wasn’t responsible for Harry’s entire life. He wishes that he had more information, so he could actually have a chance at saving Harry.

The dream—the memory, more like—was awful, but he has a sick feeling in his chest that it won’t be the last one he’ll have. It seems like Faux-Harry’s way of giving him clues, or to remind him what he’s supposed to be doing. Either way, it’s working. He wants to talk to Harry right this second, to scour his brain for any information that could possibly help him track this faceless killer down. Louis’ mom will surely be watching him like a hawk for the rest of the night, though, and where would he even go to find Harry? It’s the middle of the night.

“Sorry for waking you,” he says. “It felt so real, I felt like I—Nevermind, it was a dream. I’m just gonna go back to sleep.”

She kisses him on the forehead before standing up and leaving him alone in the bathroom. He knocks his head back, staring at the splotchy, yellowed ceiling like it holds all of life’s answers.

He won’t find his answers tonight. Tomorrow, though. Tomorrow he’ll figure something out.

+

Louis doesn’t catch a single glimpse of Harry at school the next morning. By lunchtime, Louis has checked the place he saw Harry yesterday, the nearest bathrooms, and all three of the major hallways. He doesn’t bother to check the cafeteria; Harry hardly ever ate there even when he was friends with half the school, so Louis can’t imagine he’d eat there alone.

He’s about to sneak outside, into the seniors-only courtyard as a last ditch attempt at finding Harry (though he’d be pretty disappointed if Harry  _ was _ out there, considering how cold it is). Someone stops him, an unfamiliar boy wearing a familiar soccer team t-shirt. He’s not terribly ugly, nor is he eye-catching, with his reddish hair and too big ears. Louis never would have looked twice at him if he weren’t directly saying Louis’ name.

“Uh, hey,” Louis says, feigning recognition. “What’s up?”

“Man, we’ve all been waiting for you. Where were you?” he asks, flicking his ear. Okay, so Louis is friends with this boy. Great. He doesn’t even know his name. “Come on, we haven’t eaten yet.”

Louis reluctantly follows him to the cafeteria, where he can see the rest of the soccer team all crammed around one round table. It’s the same table they’ve always sat at. Some things, at least, will never change.

There’s a wide array of food on the table, buffet style. Huge bowls of pasta, platters of pizza, plates of chicken wings and breadsticks. A whole half of the table is taken up by brownies, soda, and cupcakes. They’re frosted with the school’s logo on top. Everyone in the cafeteria seems to be moving slower, taking time to drool over their food.

“There you are!” a few of the boys yell, obnoxiously pounding their fists on the table. “We thought you ditched us for some girl!”

Louis laughs at the irony as he squeezes in between Liam and another teammate who he knows, but doesn’t talk to much. He recognizes almost everyone at the table, with the notable exception of the boy who lead him here in the first place. He also notices that Jamie is here, with his girlfriend tucked beside him, her long hair tied in ribbons, wearing a cheerleader’s uniform. It’s so cliche it makes Louis nauseas.

Liam discreetly pats his knee as he settles down. Louis turns and gives him a smile, and he’s happy to see that Liam is wearing his crinkly-eyed smile. They must be celebrating something today, hence the food.

He gets his answer when the team captain stands up and chants, “State! State! State! State!”, urging everyone to join him. The whole  _ cafeteria _ joins in, cheering and clapping along with the team. Louis gets a little caught up in the excitement himself; they had never made it to states before.

Coach Darrell gives a long, mundane speech about how he “knew they could do it” and that they’ll “kick ass” at states. At the end, he says, “Now enjoy your food, it’ll be the last good food you’ll eat all month!”

Louis eats a few slices of pizza, ignoring almost everyone’s attempts at conversation. When everyone is sufficiently distracted, he whispers to Liam, “I’m trying to find Harry, tell them I went to the bathroom if anyone asks.”

Liam nods and pats his knee again. Louis stands up, swiftly making his getaway.

The first place he tries is the library. The entrance is deserted, the librarian off on her lunch break too. There are only a few kids scattered around, mostly Freshman who have no friends to eat with. It’s a small library, only a few rows of books and two different study areas, one with just desks and one with a few computers. That’s where he finds Harry, on the computer at the very end of the row, closest to the windows and farthest from the librarian’s desk. Louis lets out a sigh of relief and makes his way over to him.

“Hey, Harry,” he smiles, dragging a chair next to him. “This is okay, right?”

Harry looks up hesitantly, his curly hair falling into his face. “Yeah, of course. Didn’t know if I’d see you around again.”

“You said yourself we’ll be great friends,” Louis says. He glances at the computer, seeing a game he doesn’t recognize. “Which one is that?”

“It’s called  _ The Portopia Serial Murder Case _ ,” Harry says. “It’s really fun, look. You have to figure out who murdered this guy, and you can interrogate people and look for clues and stuff. Basically, they found this guy, Kouzou, dead inside his office. They think he killed himself because the door was locked from the inside, but I’m the investigator they called in just to be sure. I just started playing—right now I’m in the crime scene. I’ll pick…” he reads his options, and then hits the down key until he arrives at ‘cause of death’. “ _ Yasu: One stab to the neck with a knife. Death was nearly instantaneous _ .”

Louis feels like a prank is being pulled on him. It doesn’t seem possible that Harry could be playing a game where he has to track down a killer, while Louis, at the risk of the entire universe being permanently fucked up, has to find  _ Harry’s _ killer.

“Is this what you do during lunch?” Louis asks, trying to keep his voice level.

Sheepishly, Harry shrugs. “Well, I mean. The librarian really likes me, so she lets me play games here, even though it’s against the rules. Hardly anyone uses these computers anyway since there’s not enough for a whole class.”

“She really lets you do that?” Louis laughs. He doesn’t know the librarian, Ms. Bell, but he does know that she has a strong distaste for him after he and the soccer team came in once and were talking too loudly. It was the last time he’d gone to the library, until now. 

“She likes me,” Harry repeats with a laugh. “I brought in brownies in one time, and then she asked for the recipe, so now her and my mom are friends… It’s a little weird, actually.”

Louis is content to watch Harry play the game for a bit longer, but Harry takes his hands off the keyboard and turns to face him fully. “Not that I don’t want you here, but why aren’t you celebrating with the rest of the team?”

“You heard about states?”

Harry rolls his eyes with a laugh. “The whole school’s heard about states. It’s great, honestly. None of our teams have made it to state in years, and no one thought Coach Darrell could do it.”

At the mention of their useless, constantly-yelling-but-hardly-coaching coach, Louis has to roll his eyes too. “Sure, it was all him,” he laughs. “But thanks. We’ve been working really hard.”

Louis may not have made it to states during his Sophomore year the first time around, but there’s no doubt in his mind that the team deserves it. Every year, they practice as much as the school allows them to, until their feet are covered in blisters and their knees are skinned and all of them are just short of a concussion.

“Do you still play football?” Louis asks. Harry used to be the quarterback (he thinks so, anyway. He’s never been a football fan.), one of the most well known players on the team.

“Nah,” he doesn’t seem like he wants to explain himself. “But I heard that the football coach might be leaving this year, so they could promote Coach Darrell for football. He’d be out of your hair then!”

Coaching football is all Coach Darrell ever wanted. Maybe he’d be less of an asshole if he actually enjoyed his job. Somehow, Louis doubts it.

His first thought is that there’s no way Darrell will get the position, otherwise he would’ve been the football coach during Louis’ senior year, but then he remembers that they’d never made it to states before. The school would be more inclined to let him teach football if he proved himself in soccer. Louis prays that he’ll get the spot, because he’s not sure he can handle another two years of his yelling.

Louis notices the computer screen change, and he watches with fascination as toasters with wings fly all around the screen. Harry looks at it too, laughing. “It’s cool, right?”

Lunch will be over soon, but Louis doesn’t want it to end. Talking to Harry doesn’t feel like an obligation, it feels like new friendship. Louis wrings his hands together and quickly gets out the words, “Do you like Saturday Night Live?”

“I love it,” Harry laughs. If Louis didn’t know better, he’d think Harry looks a little shy. “Why?”

“You want to come over this weekend and watch it with me? I usually watch it with my friend Liam, but he’s going to a family dinner and I’ll be all alone,” he says it all so quickly that he’s almost sure Harry doesn’t understand him. “The Clash is playing, if you like them.”

Harry smiles slowly, his lips stretching over white teeth and his dimples popping. “Sure! I have to get to class, but you can write down your address for me tomorrow at lunch,” he says. Louis wonders if this is his sly way of getting Louis to come back again. As Harry packs up his stuff, leaving the computer on, he winks at Louis. “We’ve got a murderer to catch, too.”

Harry exits the library, simultaneously knocking the wind out Louis. Jesus. They have a murderer to catch.

+

The ceiling above Louis’ bed is yellowed with age and still covered in sticky marks from where Louis had put glow in the dark stars on as a kid. With the amount of time Louis has spent staring at it, desperately trying to fall asleep, he thinks he could tell you the exact number of imperfections the ceiling has.

Sighing, Louis swings his legs over the side of the bed and digs through his backpack, hands locating his cigarettes in the dark. He stands up and stretches, hearing his knees crack. When he opens the window and hangs his head outside, admiring the stars while he puts the stick between his teeth and lights it. Jesus, he wishes he’d quit smoking sooner. He’s starting to enjoy it again, a bit too much. 

He remembers taking a late night walk one day, absentmindedly flicking the lighter cap in his hand and kicking pebbles down the sidewalk. Ahead, he saw a figure standing at the edge of the skate park, alone and clearly not holding a skateboard. Louis watched him spread a large, fluffy blanket out in the grass and lie down on it, his hands clasped over his chest as he stared at the starry sky. It was Harry, of course it was Harry. Who else would sneak out of the house to stargaze alone?

Louis had wanted to join him, to ask him if he knew which constellations were which, or if he could even tell where they were, because Louis could never find them. But Louis was a Freshman, that year, and all he knew of Harry was that Harry was cool. A legend. Even before he died, Harry was a legend. 

So Louis had turned around and went home without a word.

Now, staring up at the stars, Louis wonders if things would have happened differently, had he talked to Harry that day. Harry was always far too nice to turn anyone away, so there’s no doubt that he would have talked to Louis. They could have been friends. If they’d been friends, would Harry still have gone to meet the person who would soon become his killer? And would it matter? Would Louis still have killed himself?

He thinks he would have.

While it may have been Liam’s heartbreaking words that sent him over the edge, it was Louis’ brain and Louis’ brain alone that started it all. Even now, in the dark, loneliness of his bedroom, Louis can hardly think of anything except visions of himself hanging from the ceiling or lying in a puddle of vomit with an empty pill bottle beside him.

Louis huffs on the cigarette, shutting his eyes. He has everything he’s ever wanted, now. His childhood crush turned loving boyfriend, a supportive mom, a soccer team that’s heading to states … By all accounts, he should be happy. And he  _ is _ happy, when his mind is occupied. But as soon as he’s left to his own thoughts, he can feel his stomach knotting up and the breath getting stuck in his throat. It’s hard to imagine himself ever being happy. Well and truly happy.

Louis’ hands start shaking so badly that he drops the cigarette and burns himself trying to pick it back up before it can light the carpet on fire. He shakes his head at himself and throws it outside, taking in the view of the stars one last time before shutting the window.

He can get through this. First, he’ll worry about saving Harry’s life. Then he’ll worry about saving his own.

With nothing else to do, and his mind too afraid of any nightmares that could happen should he fall asleep, Louis settles himself down at his desk, flips on the lamp, and starts brainstorming. He wants to make a list of suspects, based on his limited knowledge, so that he at least has something to use as a lead. The longer he sits, the more he realizes that he has no goddamn clue who would be so horrible as to murder  _ Harry Styles _ . He drafts up a short list, which includes:

  1. _the boy on the soccer team who knew my name but I’ve never seen before (the only new person around)_
  2. _the people who were bullying harry in the hallway_
  3. _???_
  4. _?????_



Louis considers it a productive use of his time.

The most frustrating thing is that it could be  _ anyone _ . Louis could see them every day in the halls and not know who it is. He could be friends with him. He could be his mailman or his cashier or his teacher, even. Anyone who knows Harry well enough to know that Harry is gay is fair game. Meaning that the entire school and half the town is under suspicion, in Louis’ mind.

He throws his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. _ Think _ .

Faux-Harry said that the killer was set to become a murderer later in life, so he must be either violent and aggressive or deceivingly charming and manipulative. They must be physically capable of torturing Harry—who was a football player, not exactly weak—dragging his body through the parking lot and hoisting him into the dumpster. Strong. Harry went to meet him on his own free will, so he was most likely attractive, or at least seductive in personality. The person would need a motive. He must be homophobic, but Louis thinks there must be more than that. Other people have been assumed gay before. Not many, but a few couldn’t hide it, and no one ever killed them. There’s some other reason why he targeted Harry specifically. He doesn’t know Harry well enough to guess what reason that is, though.

God, Louis is trying to solve a murder that hasn’t even happened yet.

Louis taps his pencil on the desk, working through a few other ideas he has about the motive. Nothing he can think of fits. Not money, not drugs, not jealous spouses. Jealousy, though. Could the murderer have been jealous of Harry? It’s not such a far fetched idea. Harry  _ was _ the golden child, friends with everyone and always striving to better himself, whether it was in football or in singing or in playing guitar or in honors classes. That all changed when Harry came out. After that, who would be jealous of Harry? Getting spit on and pushed into lockers. What is there to be jealous of? Perhaps they were gay too, and jealous that Harry was brave enough to announce it. Louis knows the feeling. It would never drive him to  _ kill someone _ , though.

Suddenly feeling exhausted, Louis lets his pencil drop as he stands up and slips back into bed.

+

_ “Okay, man, okay. Olivia Newton John, Jessica Lange, and Clint Eastwood.” _

_ Harry taps his finger over his lips, humming. “Right… Are we talking 70’s Olivia or current Olivia?” _

_ Niall thinks for a moment, deciding, “70’s Olivia. Actually, 70s Jessica and Clint, too.” _

_ “Okay. Um, fuck Clint,” Harry says, biting his knuckle. “Marry Olivia, kill Jessica.” _

_ “No way!” Niall shouts, jostling the box of pizza he has sitting in his lap. “You’d  _ fuck _ Clint Eastwood?” _

_ Harry shrugs, not betraying how nervous he really is. “Yup. Wouldn’t you? Come on, everyone would fuck Clint Eastwood. He used to be hot, before he got old and everything.” _

_ “I never want to get old,” Niall shivers. He offers Harry another pizza slice, and he accepts. “My parents tell me all about how they used to go to parties and smoke weed and even though they’d never say this part, they were hippies, so you know they were fucking left and right. And now? They’ve got 2 kids, boring day jobs, and they go to sleep at 8 pm. What a fucking life.” _

_ Harry rolls his eyes. “I dunno. Getting old is just… Part of life. I can’t wait until I have grandkids and I’m retired, doing nothing and sleeping whenever I want. Hopefully we’ll have flying cars by then,” he says, dreamily. “Or cell phones that don’t cost four grand and only work half the time.” _

_ “I’ve never even seen a cell phone in real life,” Niall muses. “But anyway, I don’t think you’ll be so happy to get old when you see your first gray hair.” _

_ “I won’t go gray, I’ll just go bald,” Harry laughs, touching his hairline. “ _ You’ll  _ go gray.” _

_ “Will not!” Niall cries. “I’ll keep dying it, like I do now.” _

_ Harry pops the last bit of pizza crust into his mouth, brushing his hands on his thighs. “Alright, alright, I got one for you,” he says. “King Kong, Donkey Kong, and John Travolta.” _

+

Louis wakes up feeling vaguely unsettled. It wasn’t a nightmare, this time. It wasn’t even a dream, really, just a mundane conversation from the past.

He needs to find out who Niall is, though. And he needs to figure out if they’re still friends.

Before he leaves for school, he scribbles down “ _ 5\. Niall _ ” on his suspect list.

+

“We are undercover passion on the run,” Louis sings softly, folding one of his t-shirts and setting it aside. “Chasing love! Up against the suuun. We are  _ stran _ -gers by day,  _ lov _ -ers by night. Knowing it’s so wrong! But feeling so riiight!”

A new voice in the room makes Louis jump, dropping the pants he just pulled from the laundry basket. It’s Liam, standing in the doorway with an adorably confused looking expression. He was using the bathroom and getting himself a snack, but he was gone so long that Louis sort of forgot he was over. “What song is that?” he asks.

Louis gives him a similarly confused look. “You know it, Li, it’s Stevie Won—”  _ Shit. Shit! _ He does his best to look inconspicuous as he stops himself from finishing his sentence. The song hasn’t come out yet, not for anyone else in 1983.

“Stevie Wonder?” Liam gasps. He shakes his head. “There’s no way! I’ve listened to every album he has out, you know that. It must be someone else.”

“Yeah, I must be forgetting,” Louis says, voice too shaky to be convincing. Liam’s eyes narrow. “Maybe it’s just some song Lottie was playing.”

“Sing it again,” Liam orders, his thick eyebrows scrunching up further. “It— _ Does _ sort of sound like something he would write.”

Goddamnit. This is bad, this is terrible. Surely this will fuck things up beyond repair, letting Liam know that Louis is from the future. Jesus,  _ Back To the Future _ hasn’t come out yet, either.

Still, if he doesn’t sing for Liam, he’ll never stop talking about it. Hoping that Liam will give up soon, Louis sings, “If I’m with friends, and we should meet… Just pass me by, don’t even speak—know the word’s  _ discreet _ , with part-time lovers.”

Liam sits down on the bed, his head resting on his chin, deep in thought. Louis has failed ridiculously at quelling his curiosity. When Louis stops singing, Liam pouts and makes a gesture for him to keep going.

“But if there’s some emergency, have a male friend to ask for me,” Louis sings, trying to remember the words when the only thing on his mind is  _ shit, shit, shit _ . “So then she won’t peek, it’s you, my part time lover.”

“Did you meet Stevie Wonder and not tell me, or something?” Liam asks. “How else do you know this song?”

“I—No, obviously I didn’t meet him. I just... Know the song.”

“You just  _ know the song _ ,” Liam grunts. “Why do I feel like I’m missing an inside joke?”

Louis can’t do anything except stay silent and resume folding his clothes, praying that Liam will just drop it. Of course, Liam has never been very good at moving past things he doesn’t understand; he’s always staying after school to finish a math test because he tried to figure out one problem for forty minutes. This is no different.

“I know that people think I’m slow sometimes, and me saying this is probably because I watch  _ way _ too many sci-fi movies, but— _ Can you see the future? _ ”

He blurts the last words out so quickly that Louis has to take a few seconds to comprehend them. When he does, he whips his head towards Liam, staring at him in disbelief. “You think that I can see the future,” he repeats, his stomach flipping. This is bad.

“Or time travel?” Liam says, his voice squeaky. “Nevermind, it’s stupid. Maybe I really am dumb.”

“No, you’re—You’re not dumb, Liam,” Louis insists, sighing heavily. He has to tell the truth. If anyone in the world were to understand and believe him, it will be Liam. It’s not just the fact that he watches sci-fi movies and reads comic books and all that; it’s because Louis never lies to Liam. Liam knows that. Louis has played his fair share of pranks, and he’s said a few things to protect himself before, when Liam was homophobic and Louis was scared, but he’s never lied to Liam about anything that matters. “If I tell you what happened, do you promise not to tell another living soul,  _ ever _ ?”

“Swear on my life,” Liam nods seriously.

Louis sends a quick prayer to Faux-Harry that the entire universe won’t fall to shambles if Liam knows about the afterlife. “Okay. Okay, in 1985 I died.”

Liam reaches over and holds Louis’ hands tightly, his eyes swimming with concern. “You died? Will you die again? Oh my god.”

He can’t tell Liam that he committed suicide. It would break him. Especially if he found out that Liam was so cruel to him before; he’d feel like it’s all his fault, when in reality he has no control over past-Liam.

“No, I’m okay,” Louis promises. “Don’t worry about it, alright? I won’t die again until I’m old and ready. But—So, I died. And I woke up in this empty, dark room. I fell down this hole,  _ Alice in Wonderland _ style, and then got trapped in these, like, angel wings. It doesn’t make sense, but it was the most terrifying thing that’s ever happened to me. You can’t even feel your heart beating, because it  _ isn’t _ . You can’t breathe, either. Harry told me that my brain wasn’t even in my head.”

Liam’s eyes are as wide as saucers, looking equal parts disbelieving and enraptured. “Wait, Harry?”

“Harry,” Louis says, nodding. “Harry Styles. He dies too, this year. 1983.”

“This year!” Liam shouts. “What? How?”

Louis shouldn’t tell him. It would probably traumatize sweet, trusting Liam, knowing that there are people out there so hateful towards gay people that they’d brutally murder them for fun. If he doesn’t tell him, though, then Liam wouldn’t be able to help him save Harry’s life. God knows that Louis needs all the help he can get right now. He reluctantly says, “Harry gets murdered, in that parking lot that’s always empty by 4th street.”

“No,” Liam says, shaking his head. “That’s—No fucking way! Harry could bench press my entire body, how did they murder him?”

“They stabbed him in the stomach and he couldn’t fight back. He tried, believe me. They found, like. His handprints all over the ground, trying to crawl away. And clumps of someone else’s hair, but they can’t really do anything with that. No one saw Harry leave his house, and no one saw any cars leaving the parking lots. It turned into a cold case.”

“Jesus Christ,” Liam mutters, squeezing Louis’ hands harder, more for his own comfort than for Louis’. “And you met him? When you died?”

“Sort of. Not the real Harry, they just… Took his body. I guess. I didn’t meet God or anything, just the—ruler of the universe? I think? Our universe, anyway.”

“Who ever said that when you die you’ll get all the answers?” Liam snorts.

“I  _ know _ ,” Louis laughs. “I should sue!”

Liam rolls onto his back, nudging the laundry basket away so there’s room for Louis to lie next to him. He tucks Louis’ head into the crook of his neck and motions for him to continue.

“So, um. Faux-Harry, that’s what I call him in my head, showed me this, this real-time video. Of Lottie, um,” his throat feels tight. He buries his face in Liam’s shirt. “Of Lottie killing herself, because of my death. He told me that I wasn’t supposed to die, and neither was Lottie or Harry. So he sent me back here, to fix things. To prevent Harry from being killed, to not let myself die, which will keep Lottie alive too.”

“That’s a shit show,” Liam says, bluntly. He cards through Louis’ hair with his fingers. “Why did they put all that responsibility on you? It's not your fault that the ruler of the goddamn universe messed up and let all three of you die.”

“No, it  _ is _ my fault,” Louis says, feeling breathless. His heart is pounding and he can hear the blood rushing through his ears. “I killed myself. That’s how I died, I couldn’t take it anymore, constantly feeling sad or nervous, and I locked myself in the garage with the car running and I killed myself.”

“Oh, Lou,” Liam’s voice cracks, his hand freezing.

_ Will I ever go five minutes without fucking something up? _ Louis wonders. He specifically told himself that he wouldn’t let Liam know how badly he suffered, how badly he’s _ still  _ suffering, and yet here he is, not only telling him that he killed himself but also exactly how he did it.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Liam whispers. “You can just promise me that you won’t try again.”

“I promise,” Louis says immediately. Knowing that the only thing waiting for him after he dies is Faux-Harry and the angel’s death grip makes him want to do anything  _ but _ kill himself, no matter how many problems he still has. “I’m working on it. I promise.”

Liam gently kisses Louis’ forehead. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Louis sighs, happy that Liam won’t push him into talking further.

“Now tell me, do I suddenly get hot anytime soon?”

+

Louis wakes up so jittery that he can see the sheets ripple underneath his shaking hand. He hadn’t dreamt of anything, or if he had, he can’t remember it beyond flashes of colors and police sirens. 

The sun is firmly locked behind the clouds, hardly any rays managing to escape. The forecasted rain isn’t supposed to start until late in the night, which is good considering Harry is riding his bike to Louis’ house. After looking forward to tonight all week, he’d hate to cancel their SNL plans. He’d practically cleared the house out for the night—his mom is already working a double shift so she won’t be home until well after the show is over, and Fizzy is leaving in the afternoon to sleep at her friend’s house. That means Lottie will still be here, but if Louis pays her enough attention during the day, she’ll leave him and Harry alone at night. Hopefully.

Lottie and Fizzy are both in the bathroom when Louis knocks on the door. Fizzy is sitting sideways on the toilet, with the lid down, and Lottie is standing behind her. She has two locks of Fizzy’s hair in separate hands, expertly twining the strands together and forming tight braids.

“You couldn’t do this downstairs? Or  _ anywhere _ else?” Louis yawns, running his hands through his own hair.

“No, clearly not,” Fizzy says. Clearly. “Louis, will you paint my nails?”

“Absolutely not,” Louis scrunches his nose. “Have Lottie do it, if she’s so happy to be your stylist.”

Lottie shoots him a dirty look, and it’s obvious that Fizzy convinced her to braid her hair unwillingly. Fizzy’s puppy eyes are difficult to say no to.

“Who’s coming over tonight?” Lottie asks. She’s finished one side of Fizzy’s head, wrapping it up with a bright pink hair tie. “Mom told me that I need to stay in my room after dinner. Is it Hannah? I miss Hannah.”

Louis sighs and hops up on the bathroom counter. “No, it’s not Hannah.”

Hannah Walker was Louis’ first, and only, girlfriend. She was lovely, from the tips of her long blonde hair to the bottom of her perfectly painted toes. She just wasn’t right for him, for obvious reasons. He dated her for a few months, long enough to know that if he hasn’t already fallen in love, it won’t happen. A few months was plenty of time, however, for Lottie and Fizzy to fall in love with her. Anytime she came over, Fizzy would beg to steal her for “just five minutes” to show her some new dress or doll their mom bought for her. And Lottie loved when Hannah would help her with her math homework—Hannah was, by far, the smartest person Louis’ ever met.

Lottie pouts. “You used to have Hannah over all the time, now it’s just _ Liam, Liam, Liam _ .”

“What, you don’t like Liam?” Louis raises his eyebrows.

Lottie waves her hand. “I like Hannah.”

Before, Louis had broken up with Hannah at the end of Freshman year and started seeing Jamie almost within the same week. He didn’t mean for it to happen like that, but in a town like this, if any boy, let alone a boy as attractive as Jamie, wants to go on a date with you, you accept.

He doesn’t know where anything fits in this new timeline. Has he even dated Jamie? When did he break up with Hannah and start dating Liam? How did that happen? He guesses that because Liam knows the truth now, he could ask him. That could require Louis to explain what happened before—and he  _ never _ wants to see the look on Liam’s face when he realizes that he was so terrible to Louis. If he’s going to keep living in this time, though, he needs to know what has happened between himself and the other people he’s surrounded by.

He resolves to ask Liam about it tomorrow. His to-do list just keeps growing.

“Well?”

Louis blinks, finding Lottie and Fizzy staring at him with matching, expecting stares.

“Sorry, what?”

“We  _ said _ , if it’s not Hannah coming over tonight, who is it? They have to be special if mom wants me to leave you alone,” Lottie’s eyes brighten. “Do you have a new girlfriend?”

“No, not a new girlfriend, and no, they’re not special,” Louis rolls his eyes. “It’s just my friend Harry. We’re watching SNL.”

Lottie goes back to pouting and braiding Fizzy’s hair. “Fine, I’ll get out of your way later. But only because I don’t like SNL.”

+

Harry’s long hair is dripping wet by the time he gets to Louis’ house. He shakes it out like a dog before crossing the threshold and unzipping his windbreaker. It’s pastel pink with yellow and blue stripes, and Louis would never wear it, but it looks like Harry was born to.

“Shit, it’s raining?” Louis takes the windbreaker and hangs it on the hook to dry. “You could’ve cancelled, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“And let you watch SNL all by yourself? No way,” Harry grins. The fucking dimples, they get him every time. “It’s just water.”

Louis ushers him in and runs off to grab a hand towel, passing by Lottie who is pretending that she’s not spying on them at the end of the bottom of the stairs. He pinches her arm for good measure. When he comes back down with the towel, Harry has made himself comfortable, perched on a barstool in the kitchen. He throws the towel on Harry’s sopping head, laughing when Harry startles.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I thought I’d stop dripping on the carpet, at least.”

“It’s just water,” Louis winks. “You want some food? I think my mom left some money for a pizza, if you want to.”

Harry agrees, running the towel through his hair and squeezing it out. His eyes scan the room. It’s sort of a mess, because Louis was going to do the dishes and clear off the counters, but got distracted playing Monopoly with Lottie and Fizzy earlier. Harry doesn’t seem to mind.

“Show starts in an hour. Want to listen to some music?”

Harry’s eyes light up. “Yeah, what do you have?”

They make their way back into the living room, where Louis checks to be sure that Lottie has left them alone (she has). He tugs a blanket off the side of the couch and spreads it around Harry’s shoulders, grinning when Harry cozies into it and says, “Thank you.”

They sort through all of Louis’ cassettes, tossing aside Lottie’s  _ Madonna _ ,  _ Branigan 2, _ and  _ She’s So Unusual _ , which always end up in his bin no matter how many times he tells her to take care of her stuff.

“What’s your favorite album?” Louis asks, trying to have some sort of organization going on as he separates pop from rock.

This question seems to stump Harry. He physically puts his head in his hands, giving Louis a dimpled smile when he laughs at him. “Um, probably  _ A Night at the Opera _ . I remember when it came out, my mom kept me home from school and called herself out of work so she and I could line up at the record store like some kind of groupies,” Harry giggles. “But it’s so hard to choose! I love Fleetwood Mac, and David Bowie, and The Rolling Stones, and The Eagles, and—Sorry, this is probably boring you.”

Harry’s voice is slow and deep, like everything he says has been thought about painstakingly carefully. It’s intriguing, not boring. Louis can’t imagine anyone being bored of Harry Styles.

“Not bored at all,” Louis shakes his head. “I don’t listen to a lot of 70’s, my mom wasn’t really into it. I like Queen, though. I don’t own any of their cassettes, because—well you know how people can be.”

Louis scratches at his arm, eyes downcast. In the presence of Harry, so brave and honest and uncaring, he feels like a coward.

“Don’t tell me your friends get on your case over  _ Freddie Mercury _ ?” Harry huffs. “He’s a living legend!”

“Yeah, well, they don’t really care about his four-octave range when they’re too busy making fun of his outfits.”

Harry laughs. “Your friends don’t sound like very good people.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Oh, no, they’re terrible,” he says. “I’m just waiting for the right moment to tell them to go fuck themselves, really.”

Harry does this full-body cackle thing, doubling over and clapping a hand over his mouth. If this is how he reacts to the worst of Louis’ humor, then having Harry around will be a massive ego boost, he thinks. 

Harry digs out  _ Rio _ by Duran Duran and pops it into the music player, asking Louis with his eyes if it’s okay. “One of my favorites,” Louis says.

Harry spreads his blanket out on the floor and sprawls on top of it, tucking his chin under his hands. Unprompted, he says, “Did you ever hear the story about that time some guy in the audience called Freddie a poof?” Louis shakes his head, and Harry smiles serenely. “Well, so, he had just come on stage. All the spotlights were shining on him, and the music was just about to start, when this man yells, ‘You fucking poof!’.”

“No, really?” Louis says. “Who would pay to see a concert and insult the main act?”

“Right!” Harry cries. “Anyway, so he yells that, and everyone goes silent. Freddie stares at the man and gestures something at the crew in charge of the lights. And suddenly all these spotlights are shining on this one man, this guy who called  _ Freddie Mercury _ a poof, and it’s deadly silent. Freddie goes, ‘Say that again, darling’. In four words, he made this grown man feel like a little kid getting yelled at by his mom again. And then the spotlights shifted back to Freddie and he went on with the concert like nothing had happened.”

Louis’ eyes widen, feeling breathless.

Harry sits up a little more, his green eyes full of regret. “I wish I could do something like that. Me, I just let them kick me around and call me a fag ‘til their voices run out.”

Louis can hardly believe that he’s hearing Harry get down on himself over not being brave or strong enough.  _ Harry _ , of all people. “Yeah, well, Freddie has bodyguards and hoards of fans to keep him safe, and we don’t. I think you’re doing pretty damn well, considering.”

Harry’s lips turn up in a hesitant smile. “Thanks, Lou,” he says. “I think you are, too.”

There’s a brief skip in the music, the player making a loud rumbling noise before it continues with a sputter, “ _ Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand… _ ”

“So what happened between you and that kid, Jamie?”

Louis blushes, trying to feign nonchalance with a confused look. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Harry says. And he’s being honest, too. He looks like if Louis said he didn’t want to talk about it, Harry would just smile and change the conversation. It’s this quality that, more than anything, makes Louis  _ want _ to tell him. Harry is the only person he really can tell anyway—not his mom, because she’s probably never even met Jamie, not his friends, and especially not Liam. Harry won’t judge or tell anyone, and he never knew Louis before a week ago. “It’s just that you looked really—sad, when he walked by. That’s all.”

“Okay, first of all, you’re the most observant person I’ve ever met,” Louis laughs. “And, um. Jamie. We, sort of, dated.”

Harry whistles quietly, his eyes wide. “Didn’t expect that.  _ Jamie _ ? Really?”

“What, you don’t think he’d go for me?” Louis pouts, the laughter bubbling up before he can even attempt to look put out. He shoots another glance at the staircase to make sure Lottie isn’t loitering around, and then says. “Yeah, I guess he found someone better, anyway.”

Louis picks at a loose piece of the old shag carpet. Harry makes a displeased sound and says, “Hey, that’s not true. What happened? Why’d you break up?”

Louis remembers writing his final note to Jamie, trying not to drip tears onto the page while he spelled out, ‘I love you’ and ‘you’ll find someone perfect for you’. “I kind of—I broke up with him. Because I thought that I wanted something else, but—I was wrong,” Louis sighs, thinking of Liam and the huge crush he’s had on him for years. A  _ crush _ , not love. It was never love in the romantic sense. “But then we got back together. And things just went wrong, we weren’t meant to be together.”

Harry wiggles forward like a worm—it looks as ridiculous as it sounds—and puts his hand on Louis’ shoulder. “You’re right. You’ll find the person you’re supposed to be with.”

Louis  _ could _ tell him about Liam now, and Harry would go on thinking that Louis is happy and satisfied, but something tells him not to. “What about you?” he asks instead. “Anyone special for you?”

Harry’s cheeks turn a crimson red. “Not really,” he says. “It’s not so easy to meet people when you’re busy trying not to get the shit kicked out of you.”

“Oh,” Louis feels stupid. Of course Harry wouldn’t be dating anyone—it was pure luck that Louis and Jamie had found each other with such minimal fuss. “Have you ever?”

“You mean with all those girls?” Harry asks. “Not really. I don’t know. I’ve never had an official girlfriend, but I guess some of them thought it was the real deal. I haven’t really gotten a chance to go on a date or anything. Maybe when I move for college I will.”

The unknown man meeting Harry in the parking lot flashes into Louis’ mind. So that means Harry doesn’t make a habit of meeting men for sex. That’s good, at least. It narrows the search a bit. But it leaves a giant question mark in the space where a suspect’s name should be.

“You and me should take a train to San Francisco one day,” Louis says, hoping that Harry won’t think it’s odd that he’s asking him after only knowing each other for a week. “I’ve never been, but the news call it an  _ abomination _ nearly every day, so it must be good.”

Harry lets out a giggle, nodding his head. “I’ve been wanting to go there! I heard that they have—” Harry lowers his voice and says, his cheeks flushed, “Bathhouses.”

Louis reels back in surprise, a laugh being choked out of him. “ _ You _ want to go to a bathhouse?”

“No, probably not,” Harry shakes his head, laughing with him. “Probably full of old, sweaty men. But isn’t it cool they exist? I heard that the police try to shut it down, like, every day and they just keep opening back up.”

“Yeah, the bathhouse isn’t the only thing opening up every day,” Louis jokes.

“Shut up,” Harry flicks his nose, frowning. “I think they’re brave, you know—the police come every night—Louis,  _ shut up _ ,” he interrupts, giggling. “But these people keep showing up anyway. It’s admirable.”

In that moment, Louis realizes that Harry is quite possibly the most whimsical, idealistic person he’s ever met. Maybe he needs to be that way to survive getting kicked around and taunted every day, or maybe he was just born like that. Either way, it’s the complete opposite of the way Louis sees the world. Their glasses must be tinted different colors.

“If admirable means showing up day in and day out to get your dick sucked, then sure, it's admirable,” Louis says, and winces when Harry swats him on the arm. “Fine, fine, I see your point. But please, if I ever get so desperate for a fuck that I need to go to a dark, humid room where no one can see my face… Just kill me.”

Harry rolls his eyes and his body simultaneously, ending up on his back and pushing himself up into a sitting position. “Whatever. Just for that, I’m making you go in one. Now come on, I think SNL started.”

+

Louis holds his lighter to the last candle, watching the wick catch and light up in flame. He stands back and surveys his handiwork, making sure none of the candles are sitting in a place where they might fall and start the whole house on fire—he’d never be left home alone again.

“I’m just gonna check on my sister, and then I’ll be right back,” Louis says to Harry.

Lottie’s bedroom door is cracked open, and there’s a dim glow illuminated from her own candles. “You’ve a lighter in here?” he asks, looking around. “Lottie, I swear, if you’ve been smoking—”

“Oh, shut up,” Lottie says. “I haven’t been smoking. I still have one up here from the storm last week.”

Louis squints his eyes at her until she flips her hair agitatedly. “Okay, well. Harry is staying here tonight, and there’s still some pizza downstairs if you want some. If you need anything else, just come wake me up, okay? Mom should be home in a few hours.”

“I’m twelve, not two,” Lottie says. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know,” Louis says. He kisses her on the forehead even though she pulls a face at him, and then he leaves, cracking the door like it was when he came in.

The downstairs is quiet, only the sound of the rain hitting the roof and the occasional crack of thunder. A row of candles have been lined up on the entertainment center and the side tables, washing the room in the faintest yellow glow. Harry has spread two thick quilted blankets on the ground, and thrown a thinner one over the bottom half of his body, his top off.

“Oh, hope this is okay,” Harry says, gesturing vaguely to the floor and then to the now-empty wicker basket in the corner. “I found where you keep them.”

“Sure,” Louis nods, making himself a bed on the couch. There’s plenty of room on the floor, but he’s really only known Harry for a short time, probably not long enough to sleep next to him. Not to mention, Liam would be jealous.

“Can I turn on the radio?” Louis asks, bending in front of the entertainment center and pulling up the antennae. “It’s just—the storm, you know, I want to make sure it’s not a tornado.”

Harry nods, his eyes drooping even as he pushes himself up onto an elbow to watch him.

The radio crackles to life midway through  _ The Safety Dance  _ and Harry huffs. “If I hear this song  _ one _ more time—”

“We can dance if we want to,” Louis drops his voice low, shaking his hips. “We can leave your friends behind. Because your friends don’t dance, and if they don’t dance—”

“Well, they’re no friends of mine,” Harry finishes, his voice deep, naturally in the right octave. This makes Louis pout. “Lou, turn it down at least?”

He complies, turning down the dial until it’s a dull murmur.

Harry has his blanket pulled up to his chest, and as he starts to drift off to sleep, it slips down to his waist again. Louis allows himself exactly three seconds to stare at Harry’s toned body before averting his eyes.

_ Jesus Christ _ , will anything ever be enough for him? When he was with Jamie, he couldn’t stop looking at Liam, and now he’s with Liam, he can’t stop looking at Harry.

Asleep, Harry looks young and vulnerable, his face soft and pink, bathed in flickering candlelight. He looks like an excellent cuddler.

Stop. Stop.

Louis focuses on the radio, listening to the news man reassure everyone that it’s simply a late summer thunderstorm, that it will clear up by four in the morning and be humid all day tomorrow. Then they switch back to the music,  _ Total Eclipse of the Heart _ playing for what could possibly be the billionth time today. He rolls over and tries to make himself comfortable on the lumpy sofa, sighing.

The sounds of the storm lull him to sleep within minutes.

+

_ The first drop of rain to fall on Harry’s forehead opens the floodgates—Rain, rain, rain. _

_ The water sticks his matted hair to his face, his hands shaking too badly to push it back. It mixes with his blood and trickles down his nose, slipping down onto his lips. Bitter. Sharp. Without the ability to spit, all he can do is lick the wetness away, tasting his own blood down his throat. _

_ The rain falls harder, one drop leading to two, to three, to a hundred. It’s cold. _

_ “Repeat after me.” _

_ Harry rocks forward, a heavy hand on the back of his neck. He’s wobbly, one hand falling to catch himself on the concrete, the other still futilely pressed against his abdomen. _

_ “I’m a stupid slut.” _

_ The hand gets tighter, his head being pushed against the ground again. He whimpers, squeezing his lips together to hold back the shout of pain when his wound stretches, his forehead scraping against the gravel. “I’m—a,” his voice is shot, barely audible. Thunder cracks, the sky lighting up only seconds later with streaks of purple. “A stupid slut.” _

_ “I deserve to die.” _

_ “I deserve to—die.” _

_ He pulls Harry up and slams him back down, his foot stepping on Harry’s thigh and keeping him down. Harry can’t manage more than a grunt, searing pain racing from his stomach to his lungs.  _

I’m dying _ , Harry realizes. _

_ He didn’t think so before, as stupid as that is. He didn’t think he was dying. He thought that somehow, some way, he would be saved. He’d fight him off, or the guy would leave, or someone would wander down from the bars, drunk off their ass but still able to scare him into leaving Harry alone. _

_ There’s no one. There’s nothing, except the howl of the wolves and the thunder. _

_ “All I want is to get fucked in the ass.” _

_ Harry’s eyes fall shut, the rocks tearing up his chin while his face is shoved into the ground once more. “All I w-want is to get fucked in the ass,” he gasps. “Please, please, if that’s what you want—I’ll—” _

_ A scream is torn from his throat when the knife, unmistakable in its agony, plunges into the backside of his thigh. The rain instantly puddles around it, cold and almost numbing. Harry can’t do a single thing to defend himself, not when he’s being stepped on, huge hands tangled up in Harry’s hair, pulling and pushing. _

_ The blood and water gets in his eyes, rendering him blind. He needs to get up. He needs to run. _

_ “I’ll suck you, please, I’ll—You can fuck me, anything you want,” Harry begs, words tripping over themselves. It’s the fastest he’s ever spoken. “Please. Sir.” _

_ He doesn’t say a word, but he yanks Harry’s head up by his hair, making his body contort strangely, tearing his stomach further. He hardly registers it, his brain flipping the switch to autopilot. Stand up. Breathe. Run. Survive.  _

_ Back on his knees, he can wipe the blood from his eyes and see again, blurred and in slow motion, but he can see. _

_ He doesn’t think, he just  _ moves _. He gets to his feet, stumbling as his brain goes white in time with the lightning strike. _

_ Run. Run. Run. _

+

“Fuck,” Louis knows better than to sit up, his stomach lurching just at the thought. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Lou?”

Louis shuts his eyes, only able to see Harry. Bloodied, desperate Harry. With his eyes open, he can see the real Harry, the alive, sleepy, just-woken-up Harry. The sun is streaming in from the curtains, the storm nothing but a memory. Harry’s curls are bouncy and his eyes are bright, if confused. “Louis?” he repeats.

“I’m fine,” he breathes, biting his lip. _ Stand up. Run. Survive. _ “I have bad nightmares sometimes, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Harry says, slower than usual. “Do you want me to make you some coffee? I—You don’t look so good.”

Louis slowly brings himself into an upright position. “Breakfast, breakfast sounds good. Let’s go somewhere. Let me just—One minute.”

He massages his temples, breathing in and out.

“Okay, I’m good,” Louis nods, convincing himself. Harry watches him warily as he stands up, puts on his shoes, and grabs a few dollar bills. “I’m okay, I promise.”

Harry nods, but he still links Louis’ arm with his. They walk in silence to the diner, while Louis concentrates on the fact that Harry is  _ right here _ . Alive and well. And if Louis has anything to do with it, Harry will never feel pain like that ever again.

“Sorry about that,” Louis says. “Um, how did you sleep?”

“Like a baby,” Harry grins. He looks down and then says, “Oh, I’m wearing your shirt.”

At least he’s wearing a shirt at all, considering Louis whisked them out of the house so quickly.

“Where are we going?” Harry asks.

“The diner, the only good one around. Their breakfast sandwiches are to die for.”

The ground is wet, and they have to dodge puddles that line the sidewalk the whole way. Louis’ shoes squish with every step. “So, Harry, we’ve now watched SNL together  _ and _ started planning a weekend getaway to San Fran, but I still don’t know that much about you.”

Harry blushes under the scrutiny. “What do you want to know?”

“I dunno, like what do you do every day? Who do you like, who do you hate, that sort of thing.”

“I don’t hate anybody,” Harry says. Louis raises his eyebrows and scoffs. “No really! There are plenty of people who I wish would stay far, far away from me, but I don’t hate any of them. The only thing in the world that I hate is hate.”

“Modern day Gandhi, over here,” Louis says, dropping Harry’s arm so he can mime worshipping. “You don’t hate, like, Hitler?”

“Come on, Lou, that’s different. Of course I hate him,” Harry insists. “Fine, if you’re just going to make fun of me...”

Like a child, Harry mimes zipping his lips, throwing away the key. Louis rolls his eyes. “Sorry, Harry, I only wish I could achieve your Gandhi-levels of peacefulness. Who do you really, really dislike, then?”

“Pretty obvious, I think,” Harry says, hopping over a small puddle. “You’ve seen what happens to me. Sorry, I know it’s kind of pathetic.”

Louis opens his mouth to object, but Harry cuts him off, staring directly in his eyes as he says, “No, Louis, I get it. I would never dream of you stopping them, and no matter what you say—it will never change them. They’re always going to be ignorant assholes and I’m always going to be their target.”

“Harry…” Louis sighs, though he knows he can’t say anything that will make a difference.

“It’s okay,” Harry says. “Really. It’s my last year here, I’ll survive.”

Louis has to physically bite his tongue to keep the whimper he wants to let out inside him.

Usually, Louis has a smoke in the morning and then he’s good for a few hours, but in his haste to get the both of them out the door, he’d forgotten to grab his pack. “Uh, don’t suppose you’ve got a cig, do you?” he asks Harry.

Harry scrunches his face. “Nope. That’s really bad for you.”

“I know, I know, I’m quitting soon,” Louis says. It’s the truth, although he  _ could _ start quitting early. “You must have some bad habit, though. Come on, what is it?”

“I don’t!” Harry says, affronted. His face morphs into giggles soon enough. “Okay, fine. Maybe I like to... sometimes at parties, I  _ maybe _ smoke weed, but that’s it!”

Louis gasps, a hand over his heart. “Why, Harold! Don’t you know that smoke and heat is bad for your lungs?”

“Not  _ as _ bad,” Harry pouts. “And only sometimes. At parties.”

“You party a lot, then? I’ve seen you around a few times.”

Harry shrugs, frowning when he doesn’t notice a puddle until it’s too late, his shoes getting soaked in muddy water. “Nah, every few weeks, maybe. But I haven’t been to one in forever.”

Louis smirks. “Harry, would you happen to be busy next weekend?”

+

“Hey, Li? Can I ask you something?”

Liam lifts his head from where he’s fiddling with his Walkman, which got water in it because he used it while taking a bath, and has since stopped working. “‘Course.”

“I, uh. In my time, we weren’t really, um. We weren’t together,” Louis says. He wants to give as little information as possible while still getting the information he needs from Liam. “So I don’t really know our, uh, history. Can you tell me?”

“You mean how we got together?” Liam asks, now setting the Walkman down and giving him his full attention.

“Sure,” Louis says.

Liam smiles softly, though Louis thinks it must make him sad to know that Louis doesn’t remember any of this. “Well, we were at the arcade a few months ago. We stayed until closing, until Mr. Arnold was itching to kick us out—but we practically kept the place afloat, so he wasn’t going to say a word,” Liam laughs. “So finally, we finish our game and go stand outside, and all the neon signs were still lit. You just looked so—pretty. I kissed you. Then we just sort of agreed that we’re better together than apart, and you asked me to be your boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Louis breathes, smiling at his hands. “You kissed me? Just like that?”

Liam blushes. “Lou, you look  _ really _ good in pink lighting.”

“Do I look good in normal light too?” Louis asks, leaning in closer.

Liam’s breath is hot on his lips. “Stupid question,” he murmurs before leaning in and pressing their lips together. Louis hums, closing his eyes in content. Liam attempts to push him down on the bed, but Louis puts a hand on his chest and pulls back.

“Wait, I have more questions,” Louis says. Liam pouts, but sits back on his heels anyway. “So I was single? When did I break up with Hannah?”

“The end of Freshman year, then you were single since. Well, until I kissed you, anyway.”

Louis struggles to process this. He never went out with Jamie? Never kissed him, danced with him, had sex with him, shared breakfast with him. To Jamie, Louis is just another teammate, maybe not even his friend. Jamie hasn’t made any attempt to talk to him, anyway. Now he has a girlfriend, a serious one at that, and he doesn’t pay any mind to Louis, who he once called the love of his life.

“You’re sad,” Liam says, tangling their fingers together. “Why?”

“I’m not sad,” Louis insists. He sighs when Liam gives him a  _ look _ . A disbelieving, questioning look. “Okay, I am, but it isn’t your fault.”

“Can you please tell me why? What happened?”

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. He never should have told Liam in the first place—never should have told him how he died, either—but Liam has taken everything surprisingly well. What’s one more admission in a sea of others?

“I used to date someone else for a few years, after Hannah,” he says, gripping Liam’s hands tighter when he tries to slip them away. “You and I, back in my timezone—we were never together, Li.”

Liam’s brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I was dating someone else. You were… Unavailable.”

“Was  _ I _ dating someone else?”

“No,” Louis says, nervous. “No, you just weren’t interested, really.”

Thankfully, Liam doesn’t seem interested in that matter. “Who were you dating?”

“Uh, well. You know Jamie? On the team?”

“No way,” Liam shakes his head, looking as if he really believes Louis is joking. When Louis fixes him with a serious stare, Liam’s mouth drops open. “ _ Jamie _ ? But he’s been dating the same girl since, like, before high school.”

Louis’ heart makes a residual twinge. “Yeah, well, he wasn’t before. I don’t even know who she is.”

“Lou,” Liam says, quietly. He almost looks guilty. “Does that mean that when you… Woke up here, you weren’t actually in love with me? And I made you have sex with me, oh my god—”

“Woah, woah,” Louis frantically interrupts him. “You didn’t make me do  _ anything _ . I do love you, Liam. I always have. Even—even when I was with Jamie.”

“But you still love him too,” Liam says.

Louis swallows, looking down. Of course he still loves Jamie. When he died, he and Jamie were together and in love. When he came back, he was in Liam’s bed and some girl was in Jamie’s. It was bound to be a shock at the least. For as much fantasizing as he’d done about dating Liam, he still finds himself wondering if there’s  _ more _ out there. Not to mention, he misses his best friend Liam. His boyfriend Liam is always cuddling and kissing and hugging and cuddling some more. His best friend Liam was afraid to be seen with Louis’ arm around his shoulder because people might think they’re fucking. Louis never thought he’d  _ miss _ that, but somehow he does, even if it’s only because that’s the Liam he knows and loves. But he’d be stupid to give this sickeningly perfect relationship up. He and Liam haven’t even had a fight yet! He and Jamie were always at each other’s throats—though his mom always says that in a relationship, if you can’t fight, it’s not right.

Louis ignores the thoughts in his head and says, “I do still love him, but I love  _ you _ .”

“Okay,” Liam says. He pulls his hands away, and Louis lets him, though his heart sinks to his stomach. “I get it. You never asked to date me, I shouldn’t expect that you’d be happy with me.”

“No, you _ don’t _ get it,” Louis shakes his head. “That’s not it at all! Do you know how many years I had a huge, embarrassing crush on you? Every time you slept in my bed I would smell the pillows, for God’s sake! I want you, Liam. I want you.”

Liam nods, his eyes downcast. A moment passes, Louis feeling his heart race faster and faster, before Liam finally says, “You really smelled the pillows?”

Louis lets out a breath of relief, shoving him in the arm. “Shut up,” he says. “Like  _ ‘You look really good in pink lighting’ _ isn’t embarrassing either?”

+

The bedroom ceiling is quickly becoming Louis’ least favorite thing to look at. During the nights when his thoughts won’t stop racing, when sleep seems an impossible feat, and death seems like a privilege, he stares at the ceiling. He counts yellow spots instead of sheep. It never works either way.

His body is tense, all tightened up like a rubber band waiting to be snapped. He should get out of bed and do something, at least. Sleeping is not in the cards for tonight.

He stands up robotically, barely remembering to slip on some shoes before he starts to make to the trek to Jamie’s house.

He’d been lying in bed motionlessly for hours now, so long that the sun is already peeking over the horizon. It’s still dark, but it’s more of a murky, yellowish dark than pure black. Thank God for it, because Mrs. Stevens must have planted some new rose bushes that he nearly trips over on his way to Jamie’s window.

The minimal lighting hardly washes Jamie’s room in color, but the swirling gray pattern on the bed sheets, the white walls, and the red color of Jamie’s lips are visible anyway. Louis avoids stepping on a patch of daisies and rests his hands on the windowsill, wishing he could tap the glass like old times. He’s already forgotten what Jamie smells like.

Movement from the bed catches his eye, and he zeros in on a third hand which tugs the blankets up higher, the girl rolling over and falling back to sleep.  _ Jesus _ . Are they ever apart? Does she live there or something? There’s no way she could be sneaking in and out every night without getting caught—even Louis didn’t risk that.

Tears sting Louis’ eyes against his will. He shakes his head and tries to ignore the girl, focusing on Jamie instead. He looks younger, of course. It makes everything more painful, knowing that around this time is when they would have started dating. Only a few months ago, actually. God, they would have only been on a few dates so far.

He loses track of time in front of the window, wiping his tears away quicker than they can fall, and it isn’t until he can see his own reflection in the window that he realizes the sun is half-risen and he needs to get the fuck out before Jamie and the girl wake up and see him creeping. He gives him one last look, wanting to say,  _ “I love you,” _ and  _ “I’m sorry,” _ and _ “I want you back,” _ but instead he whispers, “Goodbye,” and he finds that he means it; he won’t come here again. It’s not good for him, and quite frankly, it’s creepy. He feels pathetic.

He backs away, looking out for anyone who could have seen him, and sighs in relief when everyone in the neighborhood still seems to be asleep. He makes it home quickly in an attempt to beat his mom waking up. The lights are still off and the house is quiet, so he thinks he succeeded.

The front door squeaks, so he has to go through the garage. When he passes by the car—not the same car he died in, but a car nonetheless—his heart sinks into his stomach and he feels like screaming. Even knowing how unfulfilling and disappointing the afterlife is, he can’t help but want to climb inside the car and start it up.

He can’t remember what it felt like to die. He’d fallen into a deep sleep long before his body gave out his last, weak heartbeat.

Louis slept through a majority of his Chemistry class, but he does know this: carbon monoxide binds with a person’s hemoglobin 200 times more tightly than oxygen does. In essence, the body greedily accepts the poison and blocks out necessary oxygen. Carbon monoxide slips past every single one of the human bodies’ defense mechanisms, and the body doesn’t even  _ care _ . There’s no panicking, no urgent instinct to take in more oxygen, no seizures or muscle spasms or deep, aching pain like the other options Louis considered. Just sleep. Quick, painless sleep. It was even _ clean _ —after they carried his half-stiff body out of the car, there was no evidence he’d ever been there.

Louis thinks of his mom, down on her knees, vomiting on the pavement from a mix of shock and anguish. Of Lottie, trading her trendy necklaces in for a rope. Of Fizzy becoming an only child in the blink of an eye. He can’t do that to them again.

He tears his eyes away from the car and steps inside the house. As he’s passing through the kitchen into the living room, he realizes that someone left the radio on last night, dialed down to a low volume. He goes over to turn it off, when he hears:

_ “Don’t try suicide, nobody’s worth it! Don’t try suicide, nobody cares… Don’t try suicide, you’re just gonna hate it!” _

Louis’ fists clench tightly. It’s a Queen song, sure, but it’s not a single, and they would never play it on the radio. It’s Faux-Harry’s doing, clearly.

Louis rolls his eyes and reluctantly laughs. He stares up at the ceiling, shaking his head. “Message received loud and clear, asshole.”

+

  1. _the boy on the soccer team who knew my name but I’ve never seen before (the only new person around)_
  2. _the people who were bullying harry in the hallway_
  3. _???_
  4. _?????_
  5. _Niall_



Louis tucks the list back into his desk drawer, sighing. He’s running out of time. He has less than three weeks before Harry will be brutally murdered by a still-unknown person, and he’s no closer to figuring out the mystery than he was when he started. He knows how Harry likes his pizza, his favorite musicians, the clothes he prefers, but he knows jack shit about who killed him. 

He formulates a loose plan of action. He’ll ask Harry about Niall during lunch, and then talk to the boy from the soccer team at practice after school. If he sees Harry getting harassed anytime during the day, he’ll write down their names individually.

+

Liam’s drool is creeping dangerously close to Louis’ elbow. There’s an actual puddle of it on the desk, Liam’s forehead resting on Louis’ arm. He wants to wake him up—he should wake him up anyway, before the teacher notices—but he looks so sweet like this. Since Liam has a better relationship with his parents, and thus spends more nights at his own house, Louis doesn’t get to watch him sleep as much anymore.

When Ms. Andrews’ heels start clicking closer to their section of the classroom, Louis discreetly elbows Liam’s head. He shoots upright, eyes bleary. He sends Louis a grateful glance when he realizes what’s going on.

Liam scribbles down a few of the notes written on the chalkboard, making Louis roll his eyes.  _ Of course _ Liam would still try to take notes after sleeping through the bulk of the class period. “Psst,” Louis whispers. “What are you dressing up as for the party?”

“Dunno yet,” Liam says back, his voice a little too deep to be a real whisper. “Maybe Zombie MJ in Thriller.”

“You can’t,” Louis insists. “You know how many people are going as that? No.”

“And you have a better idea?”

Louis smiles. “‘Course I do. I always do. You, me, and Harry. Darth Vader, Han Solo, and Princess Leia.”

Liam considers it for a second, and then pouts. “But I can’t be Darth Vader, that means you and Harry are dating.”

“So you want to be Princess Leia?” Louis asks. When Liam slowly shakes his head, Louis says, “Thought so. Come on, Harry’s the only one cool enough to go full Princess. And his hair’s long enough for the buns.”

“Fine, you’re right,” Liam says, though he’s still pouting. He even crosses his arms. “You have to help me make my costume though, it’s only fair.”

Ms. Andrew’s shoots them a frown and pointedly says, “Your test on this will be tomorrow.”

Liam frantically begins taking notes again, shushing Louis when he tries to talk to him again. Louis sighs and, only out of pure boredom, picks up his own pencil too. 

He manages to fill a whole page of notes—more than he’s done all year—before the bell rings. He discreetly squeezes Liam’s bicep on the way out, saying, “See ‘ya,” as he files out the door. Louis only makes it a few feet down the hall before he sees a shock of red hair. The mysterious soccer player. “Hey!” he shouts, before he even has time to think of what to say. The boy turns around, his face breaking into a smile when he sees Louis.

“Hey, man, how’s it goin’?”

Louis fidgets with his pencil, his brain working three times too fast. He’s always been good at talking to people, to strangers and friends alike. Why  _ now _ is he coming up blank?

The boy looks equally uncomfortable, but thankfully he’s better at keeping conversation going than Louis is today. “You’re coming to the Halloween party, right?”

Louis nods. “‘Course! What are you going as?”

“Peter Pan,” he says. “It’s the red hair, you know?”

Louis shrugs and laughs. “Yeah, I suppose. I’ll see you there, then!”

The boy nods and checks the clock before quickly saying, “So how’s Liam?”

Louis squints his eyes, trying and failing to think of a reason why Liam wouldn’t be okay.

“I mean, uh,” the boy shakes his head. “I mean, how are you and Liam? You’re still…?”

There’s so many people nearby, so many potential eavesdroppers, and this random boy who Louis has only met once is talking about Louis’ gay relationship. What the  _ fuck _ ?

“Let’s talk later, okay?” Louis says, his heart beating in his throat. “Not here.”

“Oh, yeah,” the boy nods, a sheepish expression on his face. “Well, uh, I’ll see you around.”

As soon as he’s gone, Louis puts a hand over his heart and takes a deep breath. Jesus. He wishes a simple remark wouldn’t make him so nervous, but after seeing everything Harry has gone through, he can’t possibly invite that kind of criticism—that kind of  _ danger _ —onto himself and Liam.

And what was past-Louis thinking, telling someone about he and Liam? Or did Liam tell him? He needs to talk to him, but it’s not Liam’s lunch period. All he can do is try to follow his original plan, the next step being to go see Harry and hopefully get some information about Niall.

_ The Portopia Serial Murder Case _ is open on the computer when Louis arrives, but Harry isn’t sitting in the chair. He must have been here just a few minutes ago, though, considering the screen saver hasn’t kicked in yet. Louis peeks around the area and comes up short. Harry could have gone to the bathroom, so Louis decides to sit down and wait for him. Voices coming from between stacks of nearby bookshelves make his ears perk up, though, and when he cautiously makes his way over there, he sees a completely mundane spectacle. Harry, sitting on the ground, a calm expression on his face. A man walking away.

“Uh, what’s up?” Louis asks, trying to look casual and like he wasn’t just spying on Harry.

Harry sends him a smile as he uses his hands to push himself up. “Just Coach Darrell. He wanted to talk to me about the team.”

“Oh,” Louis says, although this doesn’t clear much of anything up. Harry has been off the football team for a while now, and Coach Darrell doesn’t coach football anyway. “Was he trying to recruit you for soccer next year or something?”

“Nah, he just told me that if he’s the football coach next year he’ll let me on the team,” Harry says. “He didn’t know I’m a senior—God help me if I’m back here next year.”

Louis allows himself a brief moment to feel annoyed at the fact that he himself will have to repeat 2 years of high school that he already passed.  _ God help me _ , indeed. He thinks that if anything is worth repeating high school for, saving Harry’s life—and Lottie’s, and his own—is it. 

When the information processes, Louis asks, “So it’s basically a done deal, then? He’ll be the football coach?”

Harry shrugs as they start walking back to the computer. “No idea. Sorry, Lou,” he says, taking a seat. “But hey, I’m sure it will all work out!”

Repeating high school would be a lot more enjoyable without Coach Darrell around. Or, well, he’d still be around, but not around  _ Louis _ , and that’s more than enough for him. 

The fact that Coach Darrell is talking to Harry privately gives him an uneasy feeling in his stomach. He tells himself that it's not that strange—they  _ are _ still on school grounds, after all. And Harry doesn’t seem bothered, so Louis shouldn’t be either.

Louis sits back and watches Harry type in the save code that he has memorized, their game loading up to the last place they left it.  _ Yasu: Boss! The word on the street is that [Okoi], the Shingeki strip club dancer, was very close with a man named Mr. Kawamura. Could this be the same Kawamura we’re looking for? _

They work together, picking out the important clues and talking to all the right people. Louis wishes real life murder investigation would be so quick.

“We might actually finish today,” Harry says, looking at the clock. “If you want to?”

“Might as well,” Louis says. “Then you can bring a new one!”

They speed through the last half of the game, before finally they come to the final interrogation—Yasu, their assistant.

“No way—It’s not—” Harry says, eyebrows scrunched together. It’s endearing, how invested he is in the game.

“ _ Boss, that was a brilliant deduction! _ ” Harry reads aloud. “ _ I am the one who killed Kouzou. Hmm? But the key was found inserted in the keyhole from the inside of the door, you say? Boss, do you still not understand _ ?”

Harry looks adorably confused. Then he says, “Oh my god, I get it. The door was unlocked when he found the body, and then he just locked it from the inside before he called the detectives! He obviously broke the door down for appearances. It all makes sense now.”

Louis thinks it over, and then says. “So Yasu was solving the murder that he committed this whole time…”

That gives him another idea. What if Harry’s killer is on the police force? No one would suspect a police officer, and he’d have enough influence to bury the case quickly, which is exactly what happened. He’d have the physical strength and basic training to kill someone. Not to mention the fact that a police officer could fit the vague profile Louis has in his mind: married, older, living a miserable, angry life, probably only has sex with his wife once a year (okay, that last one may be Louis’ imagination running wild). It’s motive enough to kill someone, especially someone as trusting and naive as Harry is.

Louis doesn’t know any of the town’s police officers by name, but he’s sure he can find it them out somehow. See if Harry has ever talked to any of them.

“Did you like it?” Harry asks, when the silence has stretched on too long.

Louis blocks his thoughts out, nodding. “Yeah, it was fun. I like story games like that.”

“We should go to the arcade sometime,” Harry says. “I used to go all the time, but I haven’t been in a while.”

“Oh, why not?” Louis asks. He’s thinking of Liam, of Liam kissing him in the pink glow from the arcade sign. There’s a pit in his stomach.

“My friend and I used to go a lot, but,” Harry bites his lip, shrugging. “We don’t talk so much anymore.”

It must be Niall. Louis knows he should push for more information, but he can’t bear to see Harry upset, so he doesn’t. Maybe he can find more about Niall from someone else, like Liam or even Niall himself. Anything so he won’t have to make Harry relive a possibly painful memory. (Although, what would be exponentially more painful is if he fails his mission and Harry gets murdered all over again, so he really should get a move on it.)

Lunch is ending soon, but Louis remembers that he never asked Harry about the Star Wars costume. Of course, Harry is completely receptive to the idea, and even says, “I admit, I’ve tried the buns out on myself a time or two. Or four. I think I’ve got them perfected now.”

+

_ It’s close to midnight, and something evil’s lurking in the dark, _

_ Under the moonlight, you see a sight that almost stops your heart. _

 

Louis follows the two Princess Leia buns and the large Darth Vader mask through the sea of zombies, cheerleaders, and Mickey Mouses. They’re making their way to the kitchen, for the drinks and to sign themselves up for the costume contest. It’s not official, but there’s a sheet of paper hung on the fridge where people write their names down, to later walk across the living room dramatically and be voted on.

It’s loud, already filled to bursting with people—people who take up extra space with all their fairy wings and large, draping wedding dresses. The music ranges from Halloween songs to the Top 100 Hits, and people are loving it. Or maybe they’re just so drunk already that it doesn’t matter. Either way, Monster Mash will play soon, and when it does, Louis  _ will _ be on the dance floor.

The redheaded stranger that nearly outed Louis in the hallway passes them by, wearing his bright green Peter Pan outfit as promised. He shouts a “hello!” and then disappears into the crowd again.

“Hey, Li?” Louis yells, tapping his shoulder. Liam turns around expectantly. “What is that guy’s name? The redhead?”

“Oli,” Liam answers, looking confused. “You don’t know him?”

Louis shakes his head. Harry pops in, saying, “What are we talking about?”

“Nothing, nevermind!”

 

_ You try to scream, but terror takes the sound before you make it, _

_ You start to freeze, as horror looks you right between the eyes, _

_ You’re paralyzed. _

 

There are quite a few people milling about in the kitchen when they finally get there, but the wall blocks out the loudest parts of Thriller playing from the stereo in the living room, so it feels a little less overwhelming. Liam gets to work on pouring them all a shot each, making sure they down it before making more sensible drinks—they sort of need to be conscious to participate in the costume contest.

The two people in charge of the annual Halloween house party, Barbara and Steve, swing by the kitchen a moment later. They’re twins, fraternal of course, and you wouldn’t even know they’re related by looking at them. Louis thinks he remembers Liam saying he made out with Barbara in the coat closet at 1983’s Halloween party, the first time around. It makes him feel a little smug to know that that won’t be happening this year.

“Thanks for coming, you guys,” Barbara smiles at the three of them as she tidies up the kitchen, throwing some of the empty bottles away. She takes it seriously—the house is always spotless before their parents come home in the morning, although he suspects that their parents know all about the party. Why else would they always, without fail, go see friends upstate on Halloween?

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Liam replies. “Hey, Lou, sign us up?”

Louis dutifully scribbles their names down, feeling pretty confident about their chances of winning when he sees who has applied. Mostly Michael Jackson zombies, just like he predicted.

When he turns back around, Steve is standing awfully close to Harry. Harry’s back is digging into the countertop, and he’s swirling his drink around, looking vaguely uncomfortable. Louis watches them suspiciously, pretending that he’s only chatting with Barbara and Liam. Steve reaches for Harry’s buns, making him shy away. Louis catches the words “girl’s outfit” and knows exactly what’s happening.

“Steve, man, what’s up?” Louis calls, stepping towards them. “What are you this year?”

He’s wearing a plaid blue shirt that’s open in the front, and it looks like he covered himself in some sort of shiny oil.

Steve proudly says, “Bo Duke from Dukes of Hazzard.”

Louis hums, biting his lip against a laugh. It’s a terrible idea for a costume, only taking him two seconds to put on. 

“And the three of you are matching?”

“Yeah, and I see you were admiring Harry’s outfit here?” Louis raises his eyebrows, gaze hard and unflinching.

Steve can’t take a hint. He snorts a laugh, “Sure, call it admiration. Why’d you make him be the Princess? Couldn’t be Chewbacca or anything? It wouldn’t be that hard.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Because  _ your _ costume is so creative, right?”

Steve steps forward as if he’s going to hit him, but Harry drags Louis out of the way before he can. Liam has since stopped talking to Barbara, and is instead staring at the three of them in surprise. He quickly follows them out of the kitchen, only barely remembering to grab his drink.

The Misfits sing the last line of Halloween before the music shifts to the opening sounds of Monster Mash.

Louis sends Harry a look that says  _ we’ll talk later _ , and then yells, “Let’s dance!”

Everyone is just drunk enough to let their inhibitions go, jamming out to the classic song. Liam dances with him a little too close, but no one notices. Harry throws his hands in the air and wiggles his hips to a completely different rhythm, giggling when he accidentally trips over someone’s feet. It must be someone he knows, because when the girl turns around to tell him off for making her spill her drink, all he has to do is smile before she loses the attitude. Or maybe that’s just the effect Harry has on people. 

The redhead who Louis now knows to be Oli comes over sometime in between All Night Long and Maniac, holding his hand out and showing them a joint.

Liam nods, and Louis will never turn that down, so they yell to Harry and ask if he wants to come with; he follows them without a second thought. They go out to the backyard, where the music fades out, and there’s only a few people gathered—all with the same idea, if the distinct smell is any indication. There’s a swing set in the far back, probably left over from when Barbara and Steve were kids. Oli claims one of the swings, Harry and Liam getting the other two, so Louis huffs and sits on the ground in front of Liam. They’re probably far enough away for it to be okay, but when Liam tries to wrap his legs around Louis’ waist, Louis leans forward, away from him. 

“Don’t stop on my account,” Oli says, reaching in his pocket for his lighter. It looks like he’s faking nonchalance.

“You gotta stop doing that,” Louis says, before he can think about it. Liam stares at him, confused. “I mean, like. Its cool that  _ you’re _ cool, but you can’t just say things like that with other people around.”

Oli pauses in lighting the joint, sparing a glance to Harry. “Shit, man, sorry about that. I figured it was okay, since he’s a fag and all.”

“ _ Woah _ ,” Louis says, sitting up taller. “What the fuck?”

“Sorry,” Oli says again, looking right at Louis without paying Harry any attention. “Since he’s  _ gay  _ and all.”

Louis decides to ignore him, only because this night is quickly going sour and he doesn’t want to make it any worse. He plans to smoke Oli’s weed and then pretend he never met him. Harry doesn’t seem too upset, anyway. The saddest part is that Harry is probably used to things like this.

Liam takes it first, as soon as Oli has finished lighting it, sucking on it for only half a second  before handing it to Harry and blowing smoke to the side. Harry takes it with a grateful smile, and closes his eyes while he takes a long draw off it. Louis wants to make fun of him again, because smoke is  _ so _ bad for your lungs, but it’s not the right time. Oli has sent all of them into uncomfortable silence, and he doesn’t even seem to care.

While they wait their turn again, Liam slides off of his swing onto the ground next to Louis, curling his arm around Louis’ shoulders. Louis raises his eyebrows and says, “What, one drag’s got you faded?”

“I can’t just cuddle you?” Liam whispers, only for them to hear, and Louis rolls his eyes.

Before they know it, they’re all a little out of it, too peaceful and quiet for them to attempt conversation. Except Harry.

“Did you know that some dolphins can weigh only 90 pounds, and others can weigh 19,000? The small ones are called Hawaii Dolphins. Oh. Wait, no. Maui? Maui Dolphins! But they only find them in New Zealand!”

Harry repeats “Hawaii” three times, giggling so hard he’s about to fall off his swing.

Louis and Liam share a look, biting their lips to keep in their laughter—it would set Harry off again, they think. Oli has been sending Harry silent ‘ _ please shut up _ ’ faces all night.

As soon as the joint is burned out, Oli stands up. “See ‘ya,” he says without explanation. “Don’t forget, the contest is starting in a few minutes.”

“Shit,” Louis mutters, wondering if Harry will even be able to walk without tripping in this state. Let alone introduce his costume without telling the crowd another dolphin fact, of which he seems to have an arsenal of. “Harry, do you want to take a walk?”

Harry manages to stand up on wobbly legs, giving Louis a proud smile. “‘M not high,” Harry says. “Just. Floaty.”

This sends him into another giggle fit.

“Maybe we should just take him home,” Louis whispers to Liam.

Liam pouts, “But we spent a lot of time on these costumes.”

They make Harry walk laps around the backyard, letting him chatter on about dolphins, whales, and other sea creatures, until he finally says, “Hm. Am I being embarrassing?”

Louis laughs, patting him on the back. “Only a little,” he says. “You feel better? Good enough to do the contest?”

Harry nods, and they make their way back to the house. Harry is still stoned, probably, but at least he can hide it.

Thriller is playing again, slowly gaining volume as they make their way closer to the living room. They seemed to have turned it down, though, as the first contestant walks across the area that has been dedicated as the stage. She’s wearing a hand-sewn dress, but it's not clear what she even is—a ladybug, maybe? She’s no competition.

 

_ You close your eyes and hope that this is just imagination, _

_ But all the while you hear the creature creepin' up behind, _

_ You're out of time. _

 

“We’re tenth, I think,” Louis says to Liam and Harry.

A surfer, a bunny, and Fred and Wilma Flintstones go next. Louis stops paying attention after that, and trusts Liam to know when it’s their turn. After a particularly good version of a zombie makes his way offstage, Liam nudges Louis and says, “Make sure Harry doesn’t do anything weird.”

Harry hears it, and drawls, “ _ Heyyy _ .”

They carefully shuffle forward, Harry staying upright between them. No one would even notice he’s stoned off his ass, really. Standing in front of the huge crowd of sweaty people, some still dancing, others chugging beer, and only a few people actually paying attention to the costume contest, Harry speaks first and manages to catch their attention. “Hello, I’m Harry—I mean, Princess Leia,” he giggles, doing a twirl to show off his partially handmade white robe-like dress. “This is Han Solo,” he points at Louis, wiggling his fingers around so Louis will twirl too, even though he doesn’t have to. “And Darth Vader.”

Liam, of the three of them, has the coolest outfit. They’d spent two hours on the mask alone, although Liam has only worn it for a total of two minutes tonight, because of how stuffy it is. They have this in the bag.

“Thanks, guys!” Barbara says, after they make their way back into the crowd. She winks at them conspiratorially and says, “You didn’t hear it from me, but you totally won.”

 

_ Though you fight to stay alive, _

_ Your body starts to shiver, _

_ For no mere mortal can resist, _

_ The evil of the thriller. _

 

After everyone who signed up has introduced themselves and done a spin, the judges—Barbara and Steve—collaborate to decide the winners. Louis can see from across the room when Steve rolls his eyes and shrugs. He whispers something in Barbara’s ear and then disappears momentarily. When he comes back, he’s holding two envelopes and a medium-sized box. The winner always gets a tiny bit of cash inside an envelope, and considering there’s two, it has to be a group that won. The box, though. Louis doesn’t know what that’s for.

As the laughter at the end of Thriller fades out, someone turns the music off entirely. Barbara stands on a chair and claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Thank you to everyone who came tonight, you all look fantastic,” she says cheerily. “Unfortunately, we only have enough money for one winner. Well—one group. But there’s always next year!”

Everyone cheers, holding up their drinks in a huge toast.

“Now, the winners of the annual Halloween costume contest are—Louis, Liam, and Harry with the Star Wars costumes!” she steps down from the chair and joins in with the clapping.

Something about the expression on Steve’s face as he approaches puts a pit in Louis’ stomach. He’s smirking. He shouldn’t be smirking. He’s clutching the envelopes in one hand, the box in the other, and he won’t stop smirking.

“It's my honor to award Liam and Louis with five dollars each,” Steve says in a regal tone, bowing and everything. He hands them the envelopes and then stays silent.

“Um,” Harry steps forward, an apologetic smile on his face even while his thoughts are still muddled from the weed. “Are we supposed to split it, then?”

“No, I have something else for you, since your costume was the best,” Steve says. “Close your eyes.”

Louis immediately grabs Harry’s bicep, attempting to drag him away. Whatever is in that box isn’t something Harry needs. The sick feeling in his stomach intensifies, clawing up his throat when Harry excitedly closes his eyes and tears away from Louis’ grasp. He shares a panicked look with Liam, and they both seem to be debating whether they should carry Harry out or not. They don’t think fast enough—Steve tells Harry to hold out his hands and he does, his eyes still shut tight.

From the angle they’re standing, Louis and Liam can’t see what’s in the box until Harry does. Steve takes the top off and places it on Harry’s palms, shouting, “Open them!” just as he slams Harry’s hands upward and what’s inside the box goes careening for his face, splattering whipped cream everywhere.

Everyone is frozen—even in their drunken states, no one thinks it’s very funny. Confusing, more like.

Until Harry splutters, trying to blink and getting whipped cream in his eye. He tries to wipe it off, and then it really sinks in—for Louis and Liam, too—what happened.

Louis tugs Harry away, the crowd parting minutely as he stalks out of the house, Harry nearly tripping over himself trying to keep up. As they get closer to the door, Louis hears Steve yell, “Get it? Because he’s a queer? Bet you  _ love _ cream on your—”

“You better shut the fuck up,” Liam says, his voice booming loud enough to stop Steve in his tracks. “I never want to see your face again. You come  _ anywhere _ near one of us and I’ll beat your ass so hard you’ll wish you were dead.”

Neither of them look to see how Steve reacts. They tumble out of the house, into the quiet, chilly air, and focus all their attention on Harry.

There are tiny tracks in the cream on his face where he’d cried through, and he’s still trying to get it out of his eyes.

“Oh, Harry,” Louis breathes out, taking off the vest he’d worn on top of his shirt and using it to help clean his face off. “Close your eyes,” he says, and carefully wipes everything away so he can see again. It’s all in his hair and down his neck, and Louis can’t do anything about that right now, but he can at least get the stickiness of his cheeks and forehead. As he’s brushing the cloth over Harry’s chin, his face crumples and he starts to cry.

Liam’s hand twitches like he wants to reach out to Harry, but decides Louis would be better at it. Not that Louis knows what to do either—all he knows is that Harry looks like he needs a hug, so he gives him one. Harry clutches the back of his shirt so hard that his hands shake when he buries his still-messy face in Louis’ shoulder and chokes on a sob. “I never should have—Why did I think that—” he drifts off into nonsense, mumbling abuse towards himself until Louis interrupts him.

“Steve is an  _ asshole _ ,” Louis says. “He was supposed to be a senior this year, but he got held back because he would rather go to the park and get drunk than amount to anything in life. He has no real friends, no job, no girlfriend. He’s  _ nothing _ . He does shit like this because he knows that being a dick is the only thing he’s good at. Please, Harry, don’t let him get to you. You’re so much better than him.”

Harry sniffles and then pulls away. He avoids their eyes as he says, “I think I want to go home now.”

They wordlessly make their way down the sidewalk in the direction of their neighborhood. Harry frustratedly unpins his hair, shaking it out and attempting to run his hands through the sticky strands.

They’re only halfway down the street when they hear, “Hey! Wait!”

Heels click down the sidewalk loudly. They turn around and see Barbara kicking her shoes off and running after them barefoot. “Guys, please, wait!”

Harry stops, so Louis and Liam follow suit.

Barbara catches up to them, holding a hand to her chest. “Harry, I am so sorry,” she gasps, her face so scrunched up with concern that it looks like she’s gained at least ten wrinkles. “I had  _ no _ idea my brother would do that. All he told me was that he had a better present for you, and I stupidly thought he was being nice for once. Harry… I can’t tell you how bad I feel.”

“At least it's not pig’s blood,” Harry cracks a smile.

Barbara relaxes, laughing a little. “I hope you forgive me, but I understand if you don’t want to talk to me again.”

Harry shrugs. “It’s not your fault,” he says. “There’s nothing to forgive you for.”

She apologizes again anyway, and then Harry tells her that they’re heading home now and that most of the party was fun, at least. Louis will never understand how Harry stays so positive when things like this happen to him.

As they turn the corner that will lead them down to the road where they’ll all have to split to go home, Harry says, “I can’t go home like this... My parents are still up, they’ll want to know what happened.”

“Stay at mine, then,” Louis says. “Both of you. My mom won’t even be home until late tonight.”

That’s how Louis and Liam end up in Louis’ room while they wait for Harry to finish showering. Louis has done his best to find clothes that will fit Harry and Liam, since neither of them were prepared to spend the night. They’re both bigger than Louis, meaning anything they wear will stretch ridiculously over their muscles—Liam may not be as strong as he will be in a few years, but he could still bench press Louis, no problem.

He decides on simple sweatpants and loose, oversized t-shirts that he’d found in the hall closet one day. They both have band names that Louis has never listened to, but that his dad had apparently seen in concert. It must not have been a good concert if he didn’t mind leaving the shirts at his ex-family’s house on his way out the door.

Harry stays in the shower for so long that Louis almost goes to check on him. When he finally emerges, his eyes are red and he looks exhausted, but he gives them both a small smile when Liam hands him the clothes. He doesn’t tell them to turn around or anything, he just pulls off his towel and shakes his hair out into it, the tips starting to dry into curls. Louis desperately focuses on the curls, not his body, when he slides the sweatpants up his legs.

“Are you okay?” Liam asks, when Harry is fully dressed.

Harry shrugs, flopping onto the bed next to them. “Physically, I’m fine. Emotionally, I’m bruised.”

Liam snorts. “Everyone will forget about it within a week. It’s like the time when Luke Barnum puked right in front of the school entrance and everyone called him  _ Pukey-Lukey _ for a week.”

“Liam, that’s not exactly helping your case,” Louis says.

“No! My point is, they only called him that for a week. Now no one remembers it now.”

Harry blinks. “But you remember it, though.”

Liam crosses his arms and pouts stubbornly. “I’m just trying to help.”

Harry sighs and lies his head on the mattress, cheek down. “I feel really stupid,” he says, his voice lower and gravelly. “For… I don’t know. Thinking that coming out would ever be a good idea. I thought people would know that I’m still me, no matter who I’m dating. I knew what people said about  _ queers _ and I just assumed they would learn to be better if they knew one of them in real life—not the demonized versions on the news. And now I’m just… I’m realizing that it’s not going to happen.”

Louis brushes his hand against Harry’s ankle, wrapping his fingers around it comfortingly. “I could never do what you did,” he says. Liam murmurs his agreement. “You’re not stupid, you’re  _ brave _ , Harry.”

“Brave or stupid, I’m still getting yelled at and made fun of every day,” Harry eyes flutter shut. “Sorry I ruined the night for you guys.”

“ _ Steve  _ did it, first of all,” Liam cuts in. “And the night isn’t ruined—I still had fun, before all this happened. You taught me a lot of facts about animals.”

Harry laughs, dragging a hand over his face. “Oh god, I promise I’m not usually so bad with weed. It’s just been a long time.”

They all unanimously agree that they should go to bed now, worn out from their buzz wearing off and then the debacle that happened after. Harry offers to sleep on the floor, and no matter how much Louis protests, he insists on Louis and Liam sleeping in the bed. So Louis throws a few soft blankets on the floor for padding. Just before he gets in bed, Louis wraps Harry in a tight hug, squeezing his shoulders until he coaxes a laugh from Harry.

“Liam’s right, though,” Louis says. “Everyone will forget about it soon enough, and until then you have us to protect you.”

+

_ Harry squints into the sun, following a flock of birds with his eyes. Sweat drips down his face almost as fast as he gulps his water. They’ve been out here for two hours now, with no sign of stopping anytime soon, and he had to ask Coach Darrell for a break six times before he finally agreed. _

_ “Your endurance is better this week,” he says, taking a drink from his own bottle. “But I think you can do with a few more suicides. Then we’ll hit the weight room, and you’ll be out of here by 6:00.” _

_ Harry groans, falling back onto the grass. “This sucks.” _

_ “We haven’t started 2-a-days yet; count your blessings.” _

_ Harry lets out another ridiculously dramatic groan. “Am I even making progress? I feel like I still suck.” _

_ Coach laughs in that gruff, quiet way he does. “I wouldn’t be here if you sucked. Why would I waste my time on someone who doesn’t have potential? Your mind is the only thing getting in the way of your success—so stop feeling sorry for yourself and maybe we’ll get somewhere.” _

_ Harry has barely another second to rest before Coach yells, “Up! Suicides!” _

_ They run them together, for once, and anytime Harry starts to slow down, Coach shoves him in the shoulder until he gets his rhythm back. _

_ After, in the weight room, Harry thinks about how much potential Coach Darrell has, as a football coach. He’s no good at coaching soccer—evidenced by how badly everyone on the team hates him—but football is where his talent lies, and he’s clearly desperate to teach it if he’s offering Harry free private lessons. Lately, he’s been talking about how he’s trying to convince the school to hire him in as the football coach next year. He told Harry that he could come back on the team (“But you can’t be staring at men in the locker room. Otherwise, I don’t care.”), if he weren’t already a senior this year. Harry promised to put in a good word for him. _

_ The locker room is empty today. Occasionally, there will be a few students who drop in on weekends to use the track, or other sports teams temporarily needing to use a different locker room, but today it’s deserted. _

_ Coach takes off his shirt while he talks about a play that he wishes he could try out. Harry averts his eyes respectfully, but evidently Coach has no shame, because then he’s taking his pants off too. He doesn’t usually participate in the practices with Harry, so he doesn’t have any need for the shower—and Harry has no idea what to do or where to look. He’s not supposed to stare, but is it staring if he’s only making eye contact with the person speaking to him? _

_ He’s hot. Oh God, he’s hot. How has Harry never noticed before? _

_ The glint of a gold ring on Coach’s finger brings Harry back to reality. Right. Married. Coach Darrell is married. _

_ He sees Harry looking at it and says, “Three year anniversary next month,” with a smile. “You seeing anyone?” _

_ Harry shakes his head and focuses on untying his laces and removing all his padding. He’s sweaty and smells disgusting and he wants to shower, but he doesn’t know if he could live through it if Coach gets in next to him. If Harry got hard—fuck. He would die. _

_ Harry reluctantly removes his shirt and pants, leaving him in just his boxers, same as Coach.  _ God, this is bad _.  _

_ “Well? Hit the showers, man.” _

_ Harry swallows, nodding. He peels off his boxers and stares at the floor as he walks over. Coach follows him. _

_ The shower squeaks when Harry turns it, punctuating the silence that has enveloped the room. The water comes pouring out icy cold, though this is welcome on Harry’s hot face—and to prevent  _ that _ from happening. _

_ Harry reaches for the soap sitting on the ledge and then, before he can register the feeling, there’s a hand on his arm and he’s being slowly spun around. Coach’s ringed hand is sliding behind Harry’s neck, holding it there like a heavy weight. Harry’s breath catches. Coach is  _ so close _ , his breath hitting Harry’s chin. Harry closes his eyes and shifts forward. _

_ + _

_ Holy shit _ , Louis thinks. Harry and Coach Darrell. Kissing. Naked. In the shower. Harry and  _ Coach Darrell. _

Harry and Liam are still asleep when Louis wakes up from his—awfully intrusive—dream, which is good, because Louis certainly needs a few minutes to process this information. He can only thank God that he woke up before he had to see Coach Darrell’s cock.

He sits up on his elbow to look at Harry, still sleeping peacefully on the floor. Harry, who kissed Coach Darrell, naked, in the school showers.

Louis realizes that this makes Coach a suspect now, too. Anyone affiliated with Harry in a romantic way—especially if he’s married—is worth investigating.

He silently makes his way over to his desk, wincing when the drawer creaks as he opens it. Harry sniffs loudly and rolls over, but doesn’t wake up. Louis flips to a new page in his notebook, deciding it will be better to revise the list entirely, in order of most suspicious to least. Only, considering he knows hardly anything, this is difficult. He ends up with:

 

  1. _Steve !!!!_
  2. _Oli (homophobic? he’s trying to sound okay with it)_
  3. _coach Darrell (probably not homophobic, but married)_
  4. _The other people who try to hurt Harry at school_
  5. _Niall_
  6. _A police officer/detective_



 

When he finishes, he looks at the list and a shock of anxiety runs through him. Only four concrete guesses and two general categories of people. Its nowhere near enough insight to save Harry’s life. Louis runs his hands through his hair and then sets them down on the table to stop them from shaking.

It’s then that Liam starts to wake up. He rubs his eyes with the backs of his hands and then walks over to Louis. “Oh, the people you think could have done it?”

Louis nods. Liam puts his hand on Louis’ shoulder and leans in to read it. “I think you can erase Oli,” he says. “He could never kill anyone.”

“I wouldn’t have thought anyone I know could kill someone,” he says, sparing a glance at Harry to make sure he’s not awake. “I’m keeping it.”

Liam hums, nodding. “True, but Oli is skinny and weak. You really think he’d be physically able to do all that?”

Sighing, Louis nods too. “You’re right. I’m keeping it, just in case, but I’ll move him to the bottom,” he says. He remembers wanting to ask Liam why Oli even knows about them, so he does.

“He caught us in the locker room one day,” Liam frowns. “I know he’s not the nicest person, but at least he didn’t tell anyone, right?”

Louis shrugs, and then focuses back on the list.

Liam taps his fingers against his forehead, and then says, “I can tell you the names of the people who are rude to Harry. Steve, obviously. He’s the biggest bet right now. There’s also his friend, um, Jamie.”

“Jamie?” Louis repeats, feeling his stomach clench up.

“I wasn’t going to tell you,” Liam says. “But he’s a real dick, okay? He’s never been very nice to Harry, and then when he came out it just got worse. Coach almost kicked Jamie off the team for how bad he’s been acting. Hey, speaking of—why’s Coach on the list? He’s an ass, but he’s not a  _ murderer _ .”

Louis’ cheeks burn. “I’ll tell you later,” he says. “Don’t want Harry to wake up to that.”

Liam shrugs and then writes:

  1. _Jamie._



+

Niall Horan is quite a character, Louis thinks. He’s the type of person that deserves to be in a book, because he seems so one dimensional on the surface. He likes food, and parties, and girls. No one has ever seen him frown, and his laughter fills entire hallways with noise. He’s never with the same group of people; he floats from table to table, friends with everyone, yet seemingly close to no one. He must be lonely.

Louis finally meets Niall outside the cafeteria on Monday. He’s only planning on running in, buying lunch, and taking it down to the library, until he hears someone yell, “Niall!”

He turns to look, and sees one of the football players slapping a blonde-haired boy on the back jovially. Louis quickly hides behind a corner, pretending he’s reading a flyer hung on the bulletin board in front of him.

“Niall, man, were you at the Halloween party?”

“Yeah, but I left early,” Niall answers. “Found someone to take me home.”

Louis peeks around, seeing the boys jabbing Niall in the stomach, laughing. “Good on you, dude, but you missed the best prank ever!”

Louis’ eyes narrow.

“Yeah, dude,” the other boy says. “Steve shoved a whole pie in Harry’s face. Fuck, you should have seen his face! He just stared at the wall and then started _ crying _ .”

Before Louis can hear how Niall reacts to this, the group starts walking towards the cafeteria, taking Niall’s voice with them.  _ Shit _ . Louis starts following them, a few paces behind. He can’t hear much, but he does catch Niall saying, “Guess I should have been there.”

_ What a fucking dick _ .

+

“Harry?”

Harry lifts his head off Louis’ pillow and raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Do you, you know, like anyone?” Louis asks.

Harry lies his head back down. “Sure I do. My mom, my dad, you, Liam, Freddie Mercury—”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Alright, smart ass. You know what I meant.”

Unfortunately, Louis hasn’t been able to get the image of Harry and Coach Darrell out of his mind all week. He’s started wondering if Harry and Coach actually  _ did _ kiss, or if Harry just tried to. Did they have sex in the shower? Did Harry go back home with him? Did Coach ask Harry to meet him in the parking lot? This is unlikely, Louis thinks, because if he’s comfortable enough to kiss Harry in a public, school bathroom, why would he need to use a parking lot for privacy?

Something feels wrong—and the worst part is that Louis can’t tell if it’s because he’s jealous of Harry being with someone else, or if he really does have a bad feeling about Coach Darrell. 

“Maybe,” Harry says, finally. “I might like someone.”

“Harry,” Louis whines. “Please tell me.”

Harry puts his arm over his eyes and blushes so hard that Louis can see it from where he’s sitting at his desk chair. “No, I can’t. You’ll—It’ll be weird.”

Fuck, it’s Coach. It has to be. Of course Harry isn’t going to tell Louis that he has a crush on someone Louis hates.

“Oh,” Louis says. “Well… You’d tell me if you were actually dating someone, right?”

“Duh,” Harry says. “But I’m not.”

Louis sighs. This is going nowhere. It’s already November 7th; there’s only ten days to go before Louis has failed his mission. And he  _ will _ fail, at this rate. His only plan at the moment is to take Harry out of the city on the 17th, but it’s on a Thursday, so Harry will be confused and reluctant to skip school with him.

“Um, Louis?” Harry says, his voice sounding suddenly nervous. “Actually, can I show you something?”

He stands up and starts digging in his backpack, eventually pulling out a crinkled piece of paper. He hands it to Louis wordlessly, standing in front of him pigeon-toed with his hands clasped behind his back. “I found it in my locker this morning.”

 

_ I think about you every day. You’re the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. I want to be with you so bad, but I’m scared everyone will found out and treat me as badly as they treat you. I’m a coward. Maybe someday I’ll have enough courage to tell you who I am. - Secret Admirer _

 

“Holy shit,” Louis gasps, gripping the paper so tightly that his fingers turn white.

“I know, right? It’s crazy.”

“No, Harry,  _ holy shit _ —” Louis closes his eyes and visualizes the notes he would pass with the boy during class. The notes he would write Louis just to say he loves him. The notes from class that Louis would copy down because he wasn’t paying attention. The handwriting is identical. “I know who this is—it’s Jamie.”

Harry bites down on his lip, wringing his fingers together. “So it’s—it’s a joke?”

Louis sighs, setting the paper down on the table. “I don’t know, Haz. I think so.”

Harry forces a smile and waves his hand around. “I didn’t care anyway. I figured it was too good to be true.”

Louis’ chest feels tight. “Liam told me that Jamie has been… Rude to you.”

“What? No. Not really,” Harry says. “He’s fine.”

“Harry, you don’t have to lie.”

“But you love him,” Harry whispers.

Louis shakes his head with a snort. “Not anymore, I don’t. The Jamie I loved wasn’t this Jamie,” he says. “That’s fucking cruel, to give someone a fake note like this. I—I want you to tell me this stuff, okay? Maybe I can help.”

Harry sits back down on the bed. “He gave me a black eye,” he laughs humorlessly. “I was staying after school one day for math help, and your team must have just finished practice. He pushed me against the locker to threaten me, and the lock hit me right in the eye. My mom had to teach me how to put on makeup so no one would make fun of me at school.”

Louis tries to imagine  _ his  _ Jamie doing that, and he can’t. It’s like Jamie’s brain has been completely replaced, only his body remaining the same.

“It’s not usually that bad,” Harry reassures him. “He’s all talk, and the locker thing was an accident.”

“What kind of talk?” Louis asks.

Harry crosses his arms uncomfortably. “Just, like. Empty threats—stupid threats, too. He says he’s gonna get me expelled, or arrested, or like. Says he’ll kill me if I ever try to ‘do something gay with him’. I don’t think he understands that I would never go  _ near  _ him if I had a choice.”

“Fuck,” Louis says. This whole time he’s been focusing on people like Niall, who  _ might _ be a dick, but doesn’t look like he could hurt a fly, when Jamie has been right here, threatening to murder Harry. “What about Steve?”

Harry starts fidgeting. “He’s pretty harmless, really. The pie thing was the worst thing he’s ever done to me, so he’s not as bad.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis says. “That—That they do that to you, and that I’m making you tell me.”

“It’s okay,” Harry says, giving him a small smile. “I’ve just never talked about it before. Even my mom doesn’t know; I don’t want her to worry.”

Louis goes and sits next to Harry on the bed, pulling him in for a hug. He smells sweet, like strawberries. “What can I do? Do you want me to talk to Jamie?”

“No, no,” Harry shakes his head. “That would only make him angry. Seriously, Lou. Just being my friend is perfect.”

Louis smiles and presses his forehead to Harry’s shoulder. They hold onto each other for a moment longer before Harry says, “Now come on, let’s play some music or something.”

+

  1. _Jamie_
  2. _Steve_
  3. _Coach Darrell_



+

 

“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you,” Liam says as soon as he steps past the threshold. “Tried calling three times.”

“Sorry, Mom and Lottie both were on the phone for hours today,” Louis says, confused as to why Liam is here. It’s Tuesday night and they didn’t make any plans at school earlier. In fact, Louis was looking forward to having a night to himself, to think things over and decide the best course of action. “Is everything okay?”

Liam nods distractedly, looking around. Lottie and Fizzy are listening to talk radio in the livingroom, and his mom is doing paperwork at the dining table. “Can we go to your room?”

Louis follows him there, noticing how tense Liam seems. He stays standing even when Louis asks him to sit down. “We need to talk.”

His voice sounds shaky, and Louis immediately starts to wonder what he’s done wrong.

“I think—I think we should break up.”

Louis’ stomach drops. “What?”

Liam runs his hands through his hair agitatedly. “I know that you’re busy right now—and I want to help you with Harry, I swear. But when was the last time you even talked to me about anything except Harry?”

It’s true, Louis thinks, but he has a reason for it. A damn good one.

Liam must know what he’s going to say, because then he’s cutting in with, “And when you talk about him, it’s not always about saving him. It’s about how you learned his favorite movies, and how he let Lottie braid his hair, and how your mom loves him. How you watch SNL together now—which, by the way, I’ve been watching at home, alone, every Saturday.”

Louis’ eyes widen. He had completely forgotten that SNL used to be his and Liam’s thing.

“I know you’re stressed out and have a lot of things to do, but—” Liam sighs. “I miss you. The you that you were before all this happened.”

“But I’m still—”

Liam shakes his head. “No, Lou. You’re not the same person. And that’s—that’s okay, because you’re just as great, and I love you just as much, but. I don’t think you love me back.”

There’s nothing Louis can say to that. Everything Liam accused him of is true, right down to the fact that Louis called Liam just days ago to tell him about how Lottie braided Harry’s hair in two sections, clipping the bottoms with pink butterflies, and Harry didn’t even mind. “I do love you,” Louis says, feeling defeated already. “Just not—Not how I thought I did.”

Liam nods, like this is the answer he’s been waiting for all along. He sits down, finally, and they both fall silent. Louis stares at the floor, hoping it will swallow him up and save him from seeing Liam’s sad face, the sad face  _ he _ caused. Will he ever stop hurting people?

“You know, I thought I had to worry about Jamie,” Liam laughs humorlessly. “When you told me about him, I thought you’d be so hung up on him that you couldn’t be with me, but… I didn’t think this would happen.”

“What would happen?”

“You falling in love with Harry.”

Louis scrunches his face up, looking at Liam incredulously. “I’m not in love with Harry.”

Liam only spares him one, sad glance. “You are.”

“No,” Louis says. “I’m not.”

They have a stand off for a moment before Liam backs down. “Fine, then, but you like him. And I just want to say that—I saw it coming. If you two really like each other, then who am I to tell you you can’t be together?”

“He doesn’t like me,” Louis says. “He likes someone else, I already asked him.”

Liam’s face twitches. “Who?”

“Coach Darrell.”

“ _ What _ ?” Liam gasps. “How do you know? And you never finished telling me why Coach is on the list.”

“You still want to help me with all this?” Louis asks.

Liam nods, sliding closer to hug Louis. “Of course I do,” he says. “And I always want to be your best friend.”

+

“You broke up? Just like that?” Harry says, unzipping his bag and throwing in his papers while they walk.

Louis shrugs. “Yeah, sort of. I mean, I cried when he left,” he admits, his cheeks coloring. “But it wasn’t some big deal. I guess he was right that I didn’t love him like I thought I did.”

They’re talking quietly, the other students’ conversations in the hallway masking their own, but Louis still feels a pinprick of nerves. It would only take one nosy person to listen in and forcibly out Louis too—word travels fast when they only have a graduating class of thirty-three this year.

They arrive at Harry’s locker and he spins the lock through the right combination. When the door pops open with a loud creak, a note gently cascades from the top shelf to the floor. Harry exchanges a look with Louis before picking it up.

 

_ My love, _

_ I want to finally tell you who I am. Even if you don’t want me, I need to get this off my chest. Please meet me in the back gym ten minutes after the last bell. -Secret Admirer _

 

Harry rolls his eyes and stuffs the note in the trash can at the end of the lockers. He seems ready to forget about it completely, but Louis is stuck thinking that if Jamie can ask Harry to meet him in the gym, it wouldn’t be unlikely for him to ask Harry to meet him at a parking lot. But would Harry go? No, not unless he had reason to believe Jamie was actually interested in Harry.

If Louis had never told Harry that it was Jamie writing the notes, Harry would have thought he had a real secret admirer. He would meet Jamie in the back gym after school. Jamie would pretend to like him, maybe even kiss him—and then he’d invite him to the parking lot next week.

So did Louis already save Harry’s life?

Louis glances at the ceiling, waiting for some kind of recognition. He expects the school speakers to start blaring  _ We Are the Champions _ or maybe for Faux-Harry himself to drop in and tell him he’s thankful that he saved the balance of the universe.

There’s nothing, except two Freshman in the corner yelling the words to  _ Mr. Roboto,  _ flailing their arms in an attempt at doing the robot.

Well. Maybe he’ll get a celebration when November 17th passes and Harry is still alive. After all, he’s not truly safe until he makes it past that day. Either way, Louis has done his job. For the first time since he was dropped back into 1983, he’s confident. He knows who killed Harry, and how, and he stopped it.

It’s over.

+

_ Anne’s back is stiff in these metal folding chairs. She hardly has room to move her elbow without bumping into the person next to her, and thus, her back muscles have locked up painfully. She glances at the clock and considers whether she has time to stand up and stretch, but then— _

_ “Good afternoon, everyone,” a woman with pin-straight, long hair enters the circle. “We thank you all for being here today, as we know how difficult it can be to do the smallest activities, let alone come to a meeting this personal.” _

_ A few people make sounds of agreement. _

_ “This is all part of the healing process,” the woman says. “Talking to other parents in similar situations has been found to help a great deal. Now, I’ll start the conversation by introducing myself, and then we’ll go around the circle doing the same.” _

_ She’s holding onto a small stuffed animal, a lamb. Anne stares hard at the lamb, remembering the day when Harry came home from a friend’s house and had begged her to buy him more stuffed animals, because “ _ Niall has so many! He has a whole collection of farm animals. _ ” Anne went out and bought him a little lamb the next day. She’d never been able to say no to Harry. _

_ “My name is Amanda, and I’ll be your group leader today,” the woman says, taking a seat in the empty chair on Anne’s left side. “I will tell you my daughter’s story, but when it is your turn, feel free to tell us as much or as little as you want. I don’t want anyone feeling uncomfortable here,” she nods to herself and then starts. “I was only seventeen when I had my daughter. Raising her as a single mother meant that her and I were extremely close. When she was sixteen, she told me that she had a girlfriend, and although it was a huge shock, I accepted her. Living in San Francisco meant that lesbians had more visibility than other states—it was easy to forget, sometimes, that people are just as violent towards lesbians and gays there than in rural areas.” _

_ Anne shifts, crossing her legs so she’ll stop tapping her feet. _

_ “One day, my daughter and her girlfriend were walking hand-in-hand down a street in the Castro District. That area was as safe as one could be when publically doing something like holding hands with the same gender. They let their guard down. Right there on the sidewalk, a man shot my daughter in the head and she died instantly. When the police finally arrived, they chose to write her death off as an accident, rather than launch an investigation. The medical examiners ruled her death a homicide, but the officials claim the man was holding his gun in an unsafe way when it went off, meaning that he didn’t mean to shoot anyone.” _

_ Amanda looks down, sighing. “I fought for a long time to get them to reconsider, to call it a homicide, to punish the man who  _ admitted _ that he shot my daughter. But it didn’t matter. Nothing that I could do would ever bring her back. So I decided that she would want me to devote my time and energy to something that could prevent this from happening again—and to support people who have experienced things just as tragic. That’s why I’m here today, with all of you. For my daughter.” _

_ The group claps respectfully for Amanda. She waits until the noise dies down before she holds up the stuffed lamb and says, “Should we pass it to the right, then?” _

_ Anne is on her right. She doesn’t feel ready. _

_ Amanda must see the terrified expression on her face, because when she hands her the lamb, she holds onto Anne’s hand and squeezes before settling back into her chair. “You don’t have to talk about anything that you don’t want to talk about.” _

_ Anne takes a breath, running her hands over the soft fur for comfort. “Um. Hello. I’m Anne,” she says. Her voice has never sounded so squeaky. “I—I lived in Colorado my entire life, in a small town at the edge of the mountains. Not a tourist location, but just as gorgeous. It’s a family town, and that’s why I stayed there, instead of moving somewhere like, well, here. Um.” _

_ Anne blinks back the tears in her eyes. “My husband and I decided to have a baby right after we got married. When I was a teen I always thought I wanted a daughter. I wanted the dresses and dollhouses, I wanted to help her when she had boy troubles… But when the doctor told me it’s a boy, I couldn’t have been happier. It’s funny, now, because Harry loved dress-up and dollhouses more than any girl out there.” _

_ That earns a few weak laughs from the group. _

_ “Harry was—Harry was so special,” Anne says, feeling frustrated with herself when she can no longer hold the tears back. “Starting when he was only four or so, he would know when you were even the smallest bit sad, because he would come over and hug you so tight you couldn’t breathe. It worked every time. He never had a problem with his schoolwork, or with making friends, or with being nice to people. He was a  _ good  _ kid. In high school, he was the quarterback on the football team, and he was great at that too. Then, there was this one time, during his Junior year, where six different girls asked him to the Sadie Hawkin’s Day dance. He asked me and my husband how he should tell them all no in the nicest way. I asked him why he didn’t want to go with any of them, and he just—told me, right there. He didn’t even see it as a big deal, I don’t think. He said ‘ _ If I took them with me, I would be leading them on. I don’t think I want to date a girl at all _.’” _

_ Anne can’t help but smile at the memory. Though it worried her a bit, knowing that being gay was like having a target tattooed on your back, permanent and damning, she was more proud than anything else; proud that he told them the truth, and proud that he wasn’t forcing himself to be something he isn’t. _

_ “But he—he wanted to tell everyone at school, too. I warned him that it was dangerous, that even his friends might not want to be around him anymore, but he told me that it was worth it. I don’t think he truly knew what the consequences would be… No one had ever come out in our town, before, so how could he have known? He had more hope for the world than I did,” she says, her eyes downcast. “My son—He was—He was murdered, only a few months later,” she squeezes the lamb, flashes of the images of Harry in that godforsaken dumpster running through her mind. “Someone asked Harry to meet him at a parking lot, miles and miles away from our house, far away from anything, really. Harry was naive, and I think that he didn’t want us to judge him, so he didn’t tell us where he was going. I can only guess that he was lonely—and I don’t blame him. There was no other option for him, being the only person in the entire city willing to come out publicly. So he went… And he was killed in such a terrible, brutal way. They found him alone, cold, and wet in a dumpster, like—like he wasn’t even a person anymore, just garbage. When they looked at all the evidence, they found out that he was alive the entire time, that he was awake when he was—stabbed and hit in the head and pushed around. He tried to run, but—” Anne holds her hand up to her mouth, shutting her eyes. “The murderer at least had the decency to strangle him to death instead of leaving him to bleed out in the the trash.” _

_ Amanda places a hand on Anne’s shoulder, rubbing circles into it while she shakes. _

_ “They put all these pictures on the news. Right there for everyone to see. Every time I close my eyes… When I try to sleep or just to blink, I see him. I—I can hardly ever think of him the way he really was, vibrant and happy, because all I see is the dumpster and the body bag, half-zipped,” she shakes her head, wiping the tears away from her cheeks. “I couldn’t stay in that town. Not when everyone was willing to forget about Harry, to sweep his case under the rug and let it go cold. So my husband and I moved here. Harry would have loved to see all these people—brave, proud people. I—I hope he can see it, wherever he’s at right now.” _

+

“So,” Harry says, twirling a rubber band around his finger. It keeps falling off, on account of how uncoordinated he is—really, how was he such a good football player?—but he simply picks it up again and continues spinning. “Yesterday, I figured out how much money it would cost for us to go to San Francisco for a weekend. The train there and back is twelve fifty for two tickets, and there’s this bed and breakfast right downtown that would be sixty for two nights. Then if we add, I don’t know, forty bucks for food and whatever else we need. It would be, like, a hundred twenty. And split in half between us, I think it’s doable.”

Louis nods. “That’s good, yeah,” he says. “Thanks for looking that up. You found an inn and everything?”

“It has a view of the ocean and they have a swimming pool inside, in case the water is too cold,” Harry says proudly. “I talked to one of the owners on the phone and she seems really nice. She’s transgender, in her seventies, and she’s been with the same woman since they were sixteen. And she was on the committee that organized the first ever pride event in Colorado, then moved to San Fran. So she knows what it’s like here too.”

“Impressive,” Louis raises his eyebrows. “It sounds perfect, Haz.”

Harry preens. “I was thinking we could go when school gets out. It won’t be as fun, I think, if it’s snowing and everyone wants to stay inside.”

“Then it’s a deal,” Louis nods with a smile. “Week after summer starts, San Francisco.”

+

It’s hard to remember that there was a time when Louis looked at Liam and wanted to kiss him, to take him on dates and have sex with him. Maybe it was the fact that he wanted what he couldn’t have—his Liam would have never let him kiss him, even in a friendly way.

Louis wasted his opportunity with Liam, but he doesn’t find that he’s too sad about it. He feels more guilty than anything. Guilty that Liam had exactly what he wanted until Louis suddenly woke up in his own body with a different mind. Guilty that he’d spent so many years pining after Liam, but as soon as he got what he wanted, he blew it. Guilty that Liam is hurting over this more than Louis is. 

Just before Harry has to be home for the night, Louis hugs him at the doorway and tells him once again that he’s excited for San Francisco. When Louis was left alone, he imagined how beautiful Harry will look, surrounded by so many expressions of love and solidarity at every turn. Anne was right, Harry will thrive in a place where bravery is commonplace yet still celebrated.

And Louis realizes that Liam was right about something too.

He can’t get Harry out of his head. He wants to see Harry happy and alive, but it’s more than that—he wants Harry to be happy and alive with  _ him _ . He wants to take him to the diner and the lake and the arcade and he wants to ride bikes with him to the next town over, where “downtown” means more than a drug store and a consignment shop. He wants to follow Harry through college, to move away from this town, far enough to escape the relentless homophobia, but not so far away that he won’t be able to see their families as often as they want. He wants to lay outside with Harry, listening to him describe the constellations, and maybe he would wait until Harry is sleepy and calm and content before he would ask if he can kiss him. He wants to map Harry’s body out like a constellation itself, wants to feel him shiver and arch his back and be out of breath. He wants to know what Harry smells like when he’s worked up, the noises he makes, the taste of his lips.

The short of it is, Liam was right. Louis is in love with Harry.

+

Thursday, November 17th, 1983. If Louis is wrong, today is Harry’s last day alive. If Louis is right, today is just another Thursday.

Louis wakes up twenty minutes late, after spending the entire night tossing and turning and smoking, smoking, smoking. By four in the morning, he’d accumulated a pile of ash tall enough to be considered an actual mountain. He’d gotten rid of all the evidence long before his mom knocked on the door to tell him off for sleeping in.

He’s running on less than two hours of sleep when he pulls himself out of bed and starts getting ready. Liam is already waiting for him in the kitchen, although he could have gone off without him and not risked being late.

Just when they make it through the big double doors at the front of the school, the shrill bell rings out. Louis and Liam groan simultaneously, slowing their frantic feet. Everyone clears out within seconds, racing off to their classes. Liam and Louis glance at each other, already having made up their minds.

“Bleachers?” Liam asks.

Louis considers it, thinking it a bad idea to go get high during first hour when it’s Harry’s  _ last day _ . But Harry is in class, safe, and Louis doesn’t have to get high. He can just hang with Liam. So he nods in confirmation and they start heading outside.

The teacher’s voice filters through the cracked door as they pass right by it. The bleachers that look out on the soccer field are on the other end of the school, tall enough to conceal them while they smoke underneath. It’s possibly a testament to how cliche and predictable their school is, but nobody has to bring their own weed—this kid named Zayn is always down there during first hour, selling it.

They’ve just walked through the English wing, towards the double doors leading outside, when Louis hears voices around the corner. It’s by no means odd for someone to be in the hallway during class, but as a pit settles in Louis’ stomach, he knows he needs to check it out, if only to calm himself.

Louis doesn’t tell Liam where he’s going, but he gives him the option to follow him if he wants to. He does. They silently make their way around the corner, stopping before they fully enter the next hallway.

Two figures are standing in front of a locker—Harry’s locker, if Louis’ guess is right. One of them is distinctly Jamie, but Louis can’t tell who the second one is until he turns to the side a bit. Niall.

Louis clenches his fists with premature anger. He doesn’t know what they’re doing, but he’s sure it isn’t good.

Niall is unfolding and refolding a piece of paper, biting his lip. “We don’t have to do this.”

Jamie doesn’t respond, but he does take the note from Niall’s hand, folding it once more, and then hovers it over the slits in the locker next to them.

Before Louis can even begin to consider his actions, he’s stepping forward and yelling, “Hey!”

The two boys turn around with vastly different expressions on their face. Niall’s is pure anxiety, even fear, and Jamie’s seems entirely unsurprised. It does catch him off guard long enough that he lowers his hand without dropping the note inside the locker.

“What is that?” Louis orders, rather than asks.

“A note!” Niall says, his voice sounding strangled. Jamie shoots Niall a deathly stare.

In the blink of an eye, Liam is standing chest to chest with Jamie, holding his shirt collar up to his chin. “Give Louis the note,” he says. When Jamie doesn’t immediately react, Liam shoves his back against the locker and repeats, “I said, give him the note.”

Jamie’s face cracks, his eyes closing when he flinches. He hands it to Louis wordlessly.

 

_ I missed you the other day. I’m guessing the reason you didn’t show is because you thought I was Jamie. I’m not. I’ve only been asking Jamie to write these letters for me because I didn’t want you or anyone else to find out who they are from yet. I guess I failed, didn’t I? I still want to tell you who I am, but I think you know now. And I think you like me too. _

_ Please meet me near the bar The Nest on 4th street. If you keep walking down the main road it will look like you’re walking straight into a forest, but there’s a path there. Half a mile or so down and to the right, there’s a parking lot. There used to be a grocery store there, but it's empty now. I wish I didn’t have to keep us a secret, but this is the only way we can meet. I’ll be there at midnight. Please come. -Not so secret admirer _

 

It’s a different set of handwriting this time, a messy, heavy-handed scrawl. Louis feels panic in his chest when he realizes that he doesn’t know who wrote this. Harry will know, evidently. Jamie must know. Where does Niall fit in?

“Who wrote this?” Louis growls, holding onto the paper so tightly that it could rip.

Niall is biting his knuckle to bleeding, eyes shifting between the three of them. “I swear I wasn’t a part of this,” he says finally, his words melding together in one long jumble. “I-I’ve only ever read this one note, and—it’s giving me a bad feeling. What’s going on?”

Jamie seems to recognize how Niall has no problem throwing him under the bus, because his confidence sags a bit. He bluffs, rolling his eyes. “Look, you want to know who wrote it?” he says. “Go to the parking lot at midnight and find out.”

It’s a complete shock to see Jamie acting this way. It’s one thing to hear about it, and another thing entirely to witness it. How could he be so  _ different _ ? It feels like just yesterday they were laughing on Jamie’s bed, Careless Whisper the soundtrack to a blowjob. 

Louis shakes himself out of it. He can’t get caught up in the past anymore—that won’t save Harry’s life.

“Are you doing this for a laugh or do you  _ actually _ want Harry to end up dead?”

“Wait, _ dead _ ?” Niall’s eyes widen further, if that’s possible.

Jamie’s eyes narrow. “Harry’s not going to die. What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Cut the bullshit,” Liam says, looking so menacing that him cracking his knuckles doesn’t even look ridiculous, only fitting. “We all know why that person wants Harry in that parking lot.”

Jamie barks out a laugh. “You really think we’d let him get killed? Come on. It’s a joke! I wanted to beat Steve’s prank at Halloween.”

Louis shares a look with Liam. Neither of them know what to make of Jamie. He could be lying, but it’s highly probable that Jamie did just want to humiliate Harry in public again for bragging rights. Meanwhile, Niall looks as if he’s seen a ghost. How could he have been roped into this?

“Tell me who’s been writing these notes,” Louis orders, still holding onto the most recent one.

Silence falls between the four of them. Jamie doesn’t back down, setting his face in a deep frown while he stares directly into Louis’ eyes. It’s clear that he won’t give any names, and that Niall is too scared to admit anything either.

“ _ Fuck, _ fine. Then tell me what the prank was supposed to be.”

Jamie crosses his arms agitatedly. “It would have been fucking hilarious, okay?” he says. “There’s a guy Harry likes. I asked him to pretend he’s interested, then take him to the parking lot, and tape record Harry, like, hopefully asking him to fuck him or something. Then I would play it the next time I had a party.”

Louis opens his mouth and then shuts it. “I—” he shuts it again. “You—that’s your genius fucking prank? You realize that people would think  _ you _ took the recording? And that you’re gay too?”

Jamie huffs. “They wouldn’t.”

Louis has the abrupt realization that Jamie didn’t plan for Harry to die. He may not know Jamie like he used to, but he can tell when he’s lying, and right now he isn’t. He’s clueless, stupid, and cruel, but not lying.

Impulsively, he crowds into Jamie’s space, pressing him to the lockers with an unwavering glare. He falters, not knowing what to do next. He’s never been the type to use force to get what he wants—he usually has Liam do it for him. He can’t punch Jamie, that would only make a fight break out. He can’t simply threaten Jamie, then he’d look weak. All he can do is try to appeal to what little kindness Jamie might have left in him.

“Listen to me right now,” Louis says, his words slow and careful. “Harry is in danger. I know that you only meant for this to be a prank, but it’s not going to end up that way. Do you want someone to die because of you? Do you want to live with that on your conscience for the rest of your life? Is the prank worth someone’s  _ life _ ? You might not believe me, and that’s fine. But if there’s even a  _ chance _ you could be responsible for Harry’s death, don’t you think you should call it off?”

Jamie blinks, shrugging out of the space between Louis and the locker. “Fine. I won’t give him the letter. Okay? Jesus, why do you think he’s gonna die anyway?”

“Can’t tell you,” Louis shakes his head. “I’m throwing this away now.”

He rips the note into pieces for good measure, watching them flutter down to the floor.

This time, he’s got it right. Harry won’t be going to the parking lot.

+

Harry is acting—strangely.

Louis meets up with him for lunch as usual, trying not to let his nerves show. He may be confident that he solved the mystery, so to speak, but he was wrong before, and he could always be wrong again. He’s already preparing himself for a sleepless night, keeping a watch on the empty parking lot until sunrise. Just in case. And because he wants to see the fucker that killed Harry.

Harry is in his usual seat, but his body is turned to face the window, not the computer. The expression on his face is unreadable, but he doesn’t exactly look sad. More… conflicted.

When he notices Louis, he gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey, Lou.”

“Hazza,” Louis says, nodding his head. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Harry says at first, and then seems to realize that that answer won’t cut it. “I—I don’t know. I’m—Have you ever really liked someone that you know will never like you back?”

Louis laughs self-deprecatingly. “Only for ten years, yeah.”

“Who?” Harry asks, his eyebrows squeezed together. Louis has the urge to run his thumb over them to smooth them out.

Louis looks around to be sure that they’re properly alone, and they are. “Liam didn’t always—want me, as much as I wanted him. But that’s sort of the thing about liking someone. You never know when the situation will change to your favor.”

It may not be a fair assessment, considering Louis doubts Harry will ever have to go back in time to save someone’s life, only to find that some monumental changes have occurred to his own life. Still.

Harry chews on his bottom lip, his frankly massive hands shaking out his curls and putting them back in their place. “I really like someone,” he says, looking at the floor rather that at Louis. “But he doesn’t—I don’t think he likes me back. And there’s another person, that— _ does _ like me. He’d give up a lot to be with me. He even, like—invited me, to. This place. Nevermind—But it feels like I’m, like, cheating on the person I like, even though we’re not together.”

Louis ignores the stabbing pain in his stomach and swallows the lump in his throat. “Well, uh. Can you tell me who it is?”

Harry looks at him with watery eyes. “I don’t want to ruin anything.”

“H, come on, what could you possibly ruin?” Louis says gently. “What could be so bad that I stop being your friend?”

Harry looks away, out the window again. When he turns back to face him, Louis realizes how close they’re sitting. Harry’s face is right there, right—

Harry’s lips taste like strawberry chapstick and feel as soft as pillows when they collide with Louis’. It’s entirely unexpected, but Louis sinks into it anyway, leaving his hands at his sides but pushing closer to Harry at the same time.

A loud whirring noise fills the room as a nearby printer starts churning out paper. Louis jumps back, eyes darting around the room until he’s sure that no one saw them kissing. In the _ library _ , the public, open, school library.  _ Fuck _ , what were they thinking?

He means to ask Harry if they can ditch their next classes, go back home and continue where they left off, but when he turns back towards Harry, he’s met with an anguished expression. His eyes are red rimmed and he looks to be floundering for words. All he manages to say is a weak, “Oh,” before standing up, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and speed walking out of the library. Away from Louis.

_ Fuck. _

+

Louis doesn’t see Harry again a single time before the last bell of the day. He asks everyone who could possibly know Harry, but no one has seen him since lunch. He doesn’t know where to even start looking now that school is out—the only places they’ve hung out are at Louis’ house, school, or the diner, but the diner is always closed from now until the week after Christmas. Louis realizes that he doesn’t even know where Harry lives. 

His best plan, he decides, is to wait at the parking lot like he planned before. He’s now sure that Harry will be there tonight—because of Louis.

Louis is the someone that Harry didn’t think liked him back. It was never Coach Darrell, it was always Louis. Coach is the one willing to give up everything to be with Harry. When Harry kissed Louis and got what he perceived to be a rejection, it gave him the push he needed to and choose Coach Darrell.

Which means Coach is the only possible person who Harry could be waiting for in the damn parking lot. 

Louis makes a stop at home before heading out for the night.

His mom is on the couch reading. When he opens the door, she lifts her head and smiles. “Hey, baby,” she says. “I was thinking of making spaghetti for dinner, if you want to invite Liam? I know that’s his favorite.”

Guiltily, Louis remembers that he hasn’t told his mom about their break up yet. He makes a promise to himself that he’ll tell her everything—everything minus the time-traveling and the death—as soon as this mess is done with.

“Uh, actually, me and Liam are having dinner at their house tonight,” Louis lies. “Sorry, I should have told you before.”

His mom waves her hand around in forgiveness, looking back down to her book. “That’s fine, less work for me. Have a good time, baby.”

Louis ducks down and kisses her on the cheek before finding a drawstring bag in his closet and going to the kitchen to grab a granola bar and two water bottles. He’ll have to miss dinner tonight. His hand hovers over the knife drawer for only a moment before he’s quickly sliding a sharp, thick knife between his underwear and pants.

Louis only vaguely knows where he’s going. He hasn’t been to The Nest before, for the obvious reason that it’s a bar and he’s a minor, but he’s been down 4th Street a time or two. There used to be a candy shop there that his dad took him to, before his dad up and left and the candy shop closed down. The road is mostly full of abandoned businesses, evidence of a time when the city was booming due to a coal mine that has long since been shut down.

Now that Coach mentioned in the letter how the parking lot used to be for a grocery store, Louis remembers it. His mom would always make him come with her because she couldn’t leave a six year old home alone. Lottie was only a toddler at the time, and Fizzy wasn’t even an idea yet. 

It’s chilling, to remember being in the very parking lot where Harry was so brutally murdered. 

Louis tries to block these thoughts from his mind as he starts walking in the direction of 4th Street. It will take awhile to get there, even at the pace he’s going. He passes the arcade and the diner and the gazebo, taking a shortcut through the ritzy neighborhood that he hardly ever visits because all the owners are too old to have kids Louis’ age. The sun is looking precariously low on the horizon already, as winter officially envelopes the town, and Louis has only made it about half the way to 4th Street.

The blinking lights of The Nest in the distance make Louis sigh in relief. He’d really like to make it to the parking lot before dark. 

Louis almost wishes he was old enough to waltz into the bar and order a drink, feeling like, of all times, this is when he’s most deserving of one. He keeps walking, only sparing a short glance to the mostly unemployed men who take residence at The Nest.

The sidewalks ends where the line of abandoned buildings does. In its place are two thick row of unruly bushes and a thin space between them, leading out into a vast plot of trees. The path is only as big as Louis is wide, and he’s already expecting to be covered in ticks and scratches by the time he makes it home.

With one last look at the lights of the city, Louis steps into the brush.

 

_ If you keep walking down the main road it will look like you’re walking straight into a forest, but there’s a path there. Half a mile or so down and to the right, there’s a parking lot. _

 

Louis keeps his eyes firmly to the right, on the look out for the path that will lead to the parking lot. The trees get thicker and thicker the deeper Louis walks, though, and now that the only sun left is a weak reddish hue across the sky, Louis fears that he’ll get lost. When he turns around to look at the first path for reference, he finds that he’s gone so far in that he can’t see The Nest any longer. He sets his jaw and continues the way he’s supposed to be going. 

_ Half a mile or so _ has never felt so long.

The moon’s glow casts the forest in an eery blue, but hardly assists him in seeing where he’s going. His feet trip over a thick root. He falls to the ground, landing painfully on his front side.

_ Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck _ . “Fuck,” Louis says aloud for good measure.

Louis’ left arm twinges when he moves it even an inch. That’s when the panic starts to set in. He gasps, gripping his bad arm and pulling it closer, ever so slowly, to take a look at his injury. The bone from his wrist to his elbow is jutting forward in the middle, but there’s no blood, at least. Louis doesn’t know what he’d do if,  _ god forbid _ , a bone was sticking out. Harry and Louis would both have to die today.

“Okay, okay,” he says to himself in a calming tone, trying to keep the panic at bay. Panic won’t help. Panic won’t save anyone. He imagines what his mom would do if she were here. 

“Two sticks and something to tie them together,” he says, almost robotically.

Careful not to jostle his arm, he sits up and looks for suitable branches. Low hanging and easy to cut free, but still wide enough to hold his arm in place. God, he didn’t think it would be this hard when he read all those choose your own adventure books as a kid. Plenty of characters broke their arms during high stakes fights or long hikes—it just so happened that two perfect sticks and a pile of rope were always sitting next to them.

_ Rope _ !

Louis swings his bag off his good arm, emptying the contents out onto the ground. He reaches in his pants and takes out the knife, thankful that he hadn’t hesitated in bringing it. He steps on the bag with one foot, the end of one rope handle with the other. One handed, it’s difficult to cut, but not impossible. It takes hardly any time at all before he has one long string of rope ready. All that’s left is the wood.

There’s a dead tree to his right, fallen down and barren. Ironically, it’s this tree’s exposed roots that Louis tripped over. Louis holds the knife firmly in one hand, holding his other arm to his chest as he begins sawing off a branch.

Beads of sweat roll down Louis’ forehead, despite the chilly breeze that only gets colder as the night goes on. Fear and frustration and exertion will do that to a person.

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Louis says again, feeling tears prick in his eyes against his will. It’s too hard, the branch isn’t budging. He wants to be at home, with his mom and his sisters and Liam and Harry, too. Harry. He needs to do this for Harry.

With renewed energy, he saws the wood harder, wishing he’d at least brought a knife with a serrated edge, as this one keeps slipping off as soon as he gets a rhythm going.

It could take ten minutes or an hour—Louis couldn’t guess. When the branch has finally been cut through enough for Louis to step on it and break it free, he allows himself a single moment to be proud of himself. Then he needs to keep going. He stands on one end and grabs the other with his hand, pulling it towards himself until it snaps down the middle. Shivering, Louis tries not to see the comparison between the wood and his arm.

“Okay,” he says, gathering his supplies. He lies on the ground, stomach down, and grits his teeth against the pain while he stretches his arm out in front of him. Completely flat, he can see exactly where the break is, and how bad. About an inch of his skin is poking up, right in the middle. His stomach lurches at how close it is to the skin. He holds the rope between his teeth, sliding one of the branches under his arm, along with part of the rope, and setting the other branch directly on top. It takes a few tries before he can balance it. When he gets it right, he uses his other hand to pull the rope around the wood, holding them together, wrapping it around and around until the rope runs out of room and he has to tie it together. It’s tight enough to hold the branches in place, but not so tight that he’ll lose circulation in his arm—at least he hopes not. His adventure books didn’t teach him this part.

When it’s all said and done, his arm sticks out at a ninety degree angle, but it’s straight and it’s not throbbing so badly anymore. And he feels accomplished, which helps.

It’s just that—he’s still lost.

In the chaos of tripping and splinting his own arm, he’s lost the direction he was going in and where he came from. The roots don’t help, either, considering there are two sets of them, stretching out in two very opposite directions.

“Oh shit,” he mumbles, circling around the fallen tree, hoping to finds some distinguishing characteristic. He wasn’t exactly paying attention to the pattern on the bark while he was breaking his arm, though.

First thing is first. He can’t take the water and food with him, now that his bag has been hacked apart with a knife. He downs the first bottle at once, and then decides to rest for a while. He settles against the tree, sipping the second bottle intermittently. He wishes he knew what time it was, so he’d know if he should get moving yet or not. He couldn’t guess how late it is even if his life depended on it—and, well, it kind of does. At least Harry’s does.

As soon as the second water bottle is empty, Louis hikes himself up and creates a game plan. The dead tree is easily found, what with it’s almost white appearance in a forest of green and brown, and there are only two options for which way he could have come from. He’ll pick one at random, count his steps to one thousand, and if he still can’t see the lights from The Nest, he’ll turn around, walk one thousand steps, and then start all over again from the other side. Eventually he’ll make it back to the entrance and he can start over again, this time being much more conscious about how far a _ half a mile or so _ is.

How did Harry find this place so fast? In Louis’ very first dream—nightmare, more like—Harry hadn’t seemed torn up or dirty or anything. Clearly he hadn’t gotten lost on his way to the parking lot. Which means it must be a straightforward route, very obvious, and Louis simply missed the turn.

He grumbles as he counts the first one hundred steps, being careful not to bump his arm into anything. It’s harder in the dark. He’s kicking himself for not bringing a flashlight.

He spares a thought to what he’ll do if he encounters Harry or worse, Coach Darrell, near the entrance. How would he explain himself to Harry? How would he defend himself against Coach? He has the knife, but it’s been dulled after using it for something it wasn’t meant to do. He’s not sure it could cause much pain to someone high on adrenaline and rage. 

He doesn’t have to worry about that, because by the time he’s counted to one thousand, he’s still just as deep in the forest as he was before. It’s disheartening, to say the least. But the only thing he can do is try again.

At the end of the next one thousand steps from the fallen tree, he can’t see a single light in the distance, but he can  _ hear _ something. Only vaguely, but the sound is there. It’s music. The Nest!

Louis wants to break into a run, but he’s seen how well even walking has turned out for him, so he keeps his pace slow. The noise gets louder as he goes, morphing into clearer melodies and the cacophony of voices. 

Louis has never been so happy to hear drunk men stumbling in and out of the bar.

As soon as he’s through the clearing, he runs towards The Nest, yanking the door open without a single care about how he must look. He has an arm in a splint sticking straight out from his body, he’s drenched in now cold, drying sweat, and he must be covered in dirt from his fall.

The bar is well lit and loud and warm, a man on stage strumming a guitar, people dancing and laughing and drinking. Behind the bar, a man dries glasses and hangs them above his head. When Louis skids to a stop, the bartender looks his way.

“Rough night?” he says, confused.

Louis sucks in a breath of air. “What time is it?”

He points at the clock on the wall, the hands pointing to 12:59.

“Shit!” he cries. “Do you have a phone?”

“Eh, Cinderella, what’s the rush?”

Its then that he must notice Louis’ arm. “Woah,” he says, pushing a little door next to the bar and emerging in front of Louis. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“No, no, I need—” Louis gasps for air, holding his good arm to his chest and trying to breath deep. “I need a phone, or—No, I need—”

The bartender waves his arms at someone on the other side of the room, and the guitar abruptly stops. The laughter and voices that were so loud before now drift into confused silence. One woman with blonde hair teased into a huge set of curls makes her way over to Louis, her face set with concern.

“What’s happened?” she asks, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Come on, we’ll help you.”

The man nods in agreement, albeit more confusedly.

“The parking lot, I need—” Louis says, closing his eyes to calm himself. “I broke my arm. I-I think. I need to get to the parking lot.”

“We should get you to the hospital,” the woman tuts. “Sweetie, I think you’ve gone into shock.”

“No!” Louis insists, breaking free from her grasp. He steps backwards until his back hits the window. “No, my friend needs help!”

“Your friend at the parking lot?” the bartender asks.

Louis nods, relief flooding his chest. He thinks he can finally explain. “Something bad is happening—I need to find him.”

“Okay, we’ll take you there,” the woman nods. “Right?” this time directed at the bartender. He nods as well. “Come on, then. Let’s get in the car.”

Louis follows them, his hands shaking so badly that his arm is starting to hurt again. “His—His name’s Harry, he was—there’s someone coming,” he babbles, hoping that they’ll believe him and not think he’s gone insane. “He was meeting up with someone at midnight in the parking lot. It’s almost one now,” Louis feels his stomach lurch, and he has to cover his mouth so he doesn’t vomit all over the nice woman’s car. “I was trying to—to find him, I got lost. I fell. He’s not okay, he’s not—”

Louis runs his good hand through his already messy hair, taking another shaky breath.

“We’ll find him, honey, everything will be fine,” she says. “Now. The parking lot where  _ J & R’ _ s used to be?”

Louis nods. The engine revs and then the woman is speeding away from the bar, but not taking the same path Louis first went down. “Wait, the—”

“I know, you went that way, right?” she points between the bushes. “There’s another way, behind the bar. Less trees. Used to take that shortcut when  _ J & R _ ’s was still open.”

Louis looks to the bartender to make sure it’s true, that they aren’t just taking him to the hospital without Harry, and the man nods. Louis sinks back into his seat and decides to trust them.

There is, indeed, a dirt road leading from the back of The Nest to a slightly larger clearing. She has to slow down a bit, lest she run straight into a tree trunk, but there’s plenty of room for her purple Beetle to squeeze through. With the headlights on, its much easier to navigate. This must be the route Coach took in his car.

Seconds into the journey, the tinny sound of rain on the roof of the car overtakes them. The  _ pit-pat-pit-pat  _ makes Louis feel as if an octopus has wrapped its tentacles around his neck, blocking all airflow. It only started raining after Harry had already been stabbed.

“The parking lot is right ahead,” the woman says, biting her lipstick covered lips. “Is it safe to drive right in? Should we walk?”

“We—We should walk,” Louis nods. He takes the knife back out of his pants and says, “I only have this.”

“Jesus, kid, let me have that,” the bartender says. Louis holds it tighter. “You’ve got a broken arm. He’ll only steal it from you in a fight.”

“He already has his own knife,” Louis quietly admits. “He stabbed—stabbed Harry.”

“We should have called the police station,” the woman says. “No offense, dear, but I thought you were only in shock, not that there’s a real…” She drifts off, shaking her head. “Right, then. We don’t have all night.”

The man takes the front, holding the dull knife in front of him defensively. Louis creeps only slightly behind him, with the woman holding up the end. After digging in her purse, she’d found a can of pepper spray that no one is entirely sure will work in the rain.

As the approach the parking lot, they stay close to the bushes and take care to not step on any crunchy leaves or sticks.

It’s deathly silent for a moment, until—

“Repeat after me.”

Louis’ blood runs cold.

“I’m a stupid slut.”

The bartender and the woman exchanged worried glances. Louis can’t breathe.

He knows this is around the time when Coach will push Harry’s head against the concrete and stand on him so he can’t move. In just moments, he’ll stab Harry’s thigh.

“I deserve to die.”

“I deserve to—die.” Harry repeats, his voice croaky and desperate. They hear him grunt a second later.

_ Harry is still alive _ . He’s still alive, and he needs Louis now more than ever. Louis failed him once already, pushing him to come here in the first place—he can’t fail again.

Just when Louis is contemplating stealing the knife from the bartender’s hands, he whispers, “now!” and charges forward without waiting to see if Louis and the woman follow.

The rain is coming down so heavily now that Louis sees the world through a kaleidoscope—he sees the colors of Harry’s clothes as they come into view, the pink of his sweater and the shine from his shoes blending into a twisting, sharp image. His long hair, dripping wet and covering his eyes, the blood running down from his stomach to the gravel, puddling underneath him.

Unmistakably, Coach Darrell.

Coach Darrell being tackled by the bartender.

Coach Darrell being sprayed in the eyes.

Coach Darrell crying out when the blunt kitchen knife digs into the skin of his neck.

Louis collapses, feeling no pain from his arm even as he uses it to crawl forward. To Harry.

Harry has fallen onto his side, curling up and holding his abdomen tight. Still, when he sees Louis, he extracts one blood stained hand and reaches out for him, his eyes closing. The sob Louis lets out is concealed by a loud crack of thunder, the sky turning purple and white and yellow all at once.

“It’s okay,” Louis says, crawling the rest of the way. He doesn’t know what to do—if he should press on Harry’s wound like in the movies or make sure he doesn’t fall asleep or simply comfort him until it's safe enough to drive him to the hospital. He doesn’t  _ know _ .

Louis grips Harry’s shoulder hard enough to bruise. There’s blood dripping down Harry's mouth.

“You’ll be okay,” Louis promises, fussing over Harry’s face because he’s too shocked to do anything else. He wipes away the blood from his mouth, his heart breaking when he sees the wound on his forehead, where blood is still leaking from. The rain assists him in cleaning it up, but even when his face is mostly clear of blood, Louis feels entirely useless. Harry has been stabbed and all Louis knows how to do is wipe up his face. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorr—”

“Come on, up, up, get him up!”

It’s the bartender. He and the woman are suddenly on each end of Harry, lifting him up by the shoulders and legs. Harry moans quietly, eyes closed again.

“Get his back,” he orders Louis.

Louis follows directions, stabilizing Harry’s back so his abdomen won’t be stretched so far.

They carry him through the woods as fast as they can without tripping, though they don’t give a single thought to the branches smacking them all in the face as they run. The headlights are still on, lighting their path once they get close enough. When the full Beetle comes into view, Louis lets go of Harry and rips open the back door, helping them slide Harry inside. He gives Harry as much room as possible, but in the end, Harry’s head rests on Louis thighs.

_ Harry is alive _ , Louis tells himself.  _ Harry is right here. He’s alive. He’s going to get better. _

With every moan and grunt Harry involuntarily lets out, Louis’ conviction gets a little weaker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I had to split this in half for formatting purposes.)


	2. two

The first time Louis can consciously remember being at the hospital was when Lottie was born. He was six, and although he had a vague understanding of the fact that there was a tiny human in his mom’s gigantic stomach, he didn’t know how it was supposed to come out. He and his friends agreed that a door probably opens up for the baby to crawl out of. So, on a bright, sunny morning, when his dad frantically drove all three of them to the hospital, while his mom was writhing in pain in the backseat, Louis was a little bit shocked. Inside the hospital, they wheeled his mom into a room, his dad following close behind, and Louis was left to sit in the hallway alone.

After Lottie, Louis revisited the hospital more times than he can count. For Fizzy’s birth, first, and then getting his tonsils taken out, but mostly to visit his mom at work. He would bring her lunch, when she wasn’t too busy to eat. Sometimes she would get called away in the middle of eating a sandwich, and she’d never complain. She always said that working in the trauma unit meant giving up her own life to save others’.

Louis’ experience with hospitals couldn’t possibly prepare him for this.

He’s surrounded by chaos, by dying people and loud crying and machines beeping, while Louis feels so exhausted inside. He can’t open his eyes, nor does he want to. They took Harry away as soon as they entered the doors, and now he could be anywhere in this labyrinth of doctors and weeping family members. There’s nothing to look at except a white wall.

“Sweetie, would you like to call your mom?” the woman asks.

She and the bartender stayed with him, even when their job could officially be considered done. Harry is in the best hands he could be, now—all they can do is wait.

Instead of answering, Louis mumbles, “What are your names?”

It’s silent for a beat, and then, “I’m Lou and this is Tom.”

Louis cracks open his eyes so he can match the names to the faces. Lou and Tom are holding each other, but each of them has a hand on Louis’ shoulder. He hadn’t even noticed. “Do you know each other?”

Tom smiles, but it lacks joy. How could anyone feel happy in this building? How did Louis ever? “We’re married.”

Louis nods. “I didn’t call my mom,” he says. “Or Harry’s.”

Lou squeezes his shoulder. “Come on, then, let me take you to the phone. You’ll feel better when your mom is here.”

He has the fleeting thought that she might be called into work at any time, that she’d find him anyway, sitting in the hallway of the ICU covered in scratches and with a broken arm. “I have a broken arm,” Louis blinks, looking down at his professionally splinted arm. He can’t remember them putting it on at all. They must have had to re-break and set it, but all he can remember is watching Lou and Tom rush Harry through the front doors.

Lou helps him stand up, stabilizing him when he wobbles. They make their way to the line of phones on the wall, finding the one that’s not being used. Louis dials their phone number with shaky hands.

It has barely finished ringing before Louis says, “Mom?”

“Louis? Is that you?”

The sound of his mom’s voice makes Louis start to sniffle. “Mom, I’m at the hospital.”

“The hosp—Baby, what happened?”

“Just please come,” Louis says quietly. “And please—call Harry’s parents. And Liam. Please?”

Louis is sure she’s fighting every instinct to hound him about what happened. She’ll find out soon enough.

“I’ll call them right now, okay? I’ll leave right after. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Louis says, putting the phone back on the hook.

Lou steers him back over to the cushioned chairs, and as soon as he’s sat down, Louis falls asleep.

+

_ Harry is on his way to lunch with Louis when he feels a hand gripping onto his arm and tugging him in a different direction. He ends up in the male staff bathroom, blinking a few times in shock before turning to see who brought him here. It’s Darrell. _

_ “Uh, hi, there?” Harry says, a slight smile in his tone. _

_ They haven’t talked, since— _

_ It was too awkward. Harry stopped coming to the regular practices, instead using Coach’s tips to practice at home. He couldn’t bear to go back to him and pretend like nothing happened, like he didn’t make a fool out of himself because he was so  _ desperate _. He’ll never make that mistake again. _

_ “Hey,” Darrell says. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d say he looks  _ nervous _. “Did you get my note?” _

_ Harry racks his brain for any note, but the last letter he’d gotten was a fake one from Jamie, days ago. Certainly nothing from Darrell. “No? I don’t think so.” _

_ Darrell lets out a huff of air. “Dammit, I knew I shouldn’t have trusted them to deliver it.” _

_ “Who?” _

_ “Look, I’ll just tell you now,” he says. “Harry, I want to be with you.” _

_ Harry’s mouth falls open, before he has enough sense to close it again. Nothing prepared him for this. Coach hadn’t seemed interested in him, not even a little bit! Harry kissed him, and he didn’t waste a single second before pulling away and giving him a stern glare. _

_ “The notes, they were me,” Darrell says. “I just had Jamie rewrite them, because I was—a coward. I didn’t want to risk being found out. But I don’t care anymore. I want you.” _

_ Harry steps back, slamming into the edge of the sink. “You… Want me? You’re married.” _

_ It’s a fact that he’d conveniently ignored when he kissed him, but afterwards, he’d nearly puked he was so upset with himself. _

_ “I won’t be, not anymore. I told her last night I wanted a divorce. But I still—I can’t lose my job, we have to be a secret, but only until you graduate. So? What do you say?” _

_ He thinks of blue eyes and fluffy hair and staying up until the crack of dawn and listening to records and going to the diner. He thinks of Louis. But how could he not say yes? When Darrell is willing to give up so much for him? Louis doesn’t love him back. There’s no point in holding out for something that won’t happen. _

_ “I—Okay,” he agrees, before he can go back on it. _

_ Darrell smiles. “Rad,” he says, and Harry almost giggles. “Can we meet up somewhere?” _

_ “Okay,” Harry says. “Yeah, where?” _

_ “I know it sounds bad,” Darrell says. “But it’s the only place we can really be alone. You know where the old grocery store used to be?  _ J &R’s _?” Harry nods. “It’s just an empty parking lot now. If you walked there, I could meet you in my car.” _

_ It’s an unsettling thought, walking through the forest to get to an abandoned parking lot on the edge of town. He almost backs out, almost says he’d rather wait until he graduates. Almost. The promise of finally catching up to everyone else, dating someone and kissing and having sex, that wins out. _

_ He ignores the thought that he’s done something wrong, and simply enjoys the way it feels when Darrell leans down and kisses him on the cheek. _

+

Anne and Robin, Harry’s parents, arrive first. They are, rightfully, panicked, but it’s no comparison to how stricken they look when a doctor runs them down on Harry’s condition. Anne nearly collapses, shaking her head and murmuring that it can’t be true, it can’t be happening.

Louis pays close attention to what the doctor is saying. Since he’s not family, they couldn’t give him any updates on Harry’s condition.

“He is in critical condition right now,” the doctor says. “We can safely say that blood loss is no longer a concern, his spinal chord doesn’t appear to be damaged, so paralysis is not likely, and the heart and lungs are unharmed. A CT scan will be performed to examine his brain. These are all good signs. However, due to the nature of an intestinal injury, sepsis—infection—is our biggest concern.”

Robin immediately asks, “What’s the best and worst case scenario?”

“Of course this is all relative, and it’s only an educated guess at this point, but the best scenario is that Harry will respond to antibiotics and no sepsis will occur, meaning he would be out of the ICU within two weeks or so. The other side of it is, Harry could develop an infection, the antibiotics could have no effect on it, and we would have to perform exploratory laparotomy surgery. This is the absolute last choice, because we’ve already performed exploratory surgery on him once, and doing it a second time would mean much slower healing because we would have to reopen the wound again. Everything will depend on what complications arise, and only time will tell.”

Louis stares at the wall so hard that the white stucco pattern begins to swirl.

_ This is all my fault. _

“Louis?”

He looks up to see his mom walking as fast as she can down the hallway without being yelled at for running. She doesn’t hug him, not at first—she inspects him for injury. She stares at Louis’ arm with watery eyes. “What happened? A broken arm? And Harry?”

Louis cuts her off with a hug. He buries his face in her neck, and—once he’s let down a few of his walls, he can’t hold back anymore. He starts to sob, soaking her shoulder with tears, but he couldn’t stop even if he tried. He wants to speak, to tell her everything that happened, so maybe his chest won’t be so  _ fucking tight, _  but words won’t escape.

“Oh, babe, it’s okay,” his mom murmurs, hugging him tight and rubbing his back. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

She maneuvers him back into a chair, simply holding him until he offers to talk.

“Mom,” he says, feeling helpless. “Harry—Could die because of me.”

His mom blinks, and then says, soothingly, “No, that’s not right. What happened?”

“He—There was—” Louis squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head.

They don’t try to speak again. Louis only opens his eyes once more, to see that Anne and Robin are clinging to each other and crying.

He knows that more sleep won’t make everything okay again, but being unconscious beats facing reality.

+

Louis wakes up in a bed that isn’t his. It’s a metal frame with only a mattress, no pillows or blankets. It’s too dark to see anything.

_ Fuck _ , Louis thinks.

“I get it,” he says. “I know where I am. Does this have to be so dramatic?”

As expected, there’s no response. Louis holds his breath and catapults off the bed, going careening down the tunnel where the floor should be. Despite the fact that he knew what would happen, all the breath gets sucked out of him—

He can breathe?

He takes a deep breath, feeling the air course through his nose and down to his lungs. Breathing. Pulse? He feels his wrist, and his confusion only grows when he can feel the blood in his veins. So he’s not dead. Then why is he here?

He lands with a jolt, falling into a familiar pit of feathers.

“Hey, can you not do that thing where you hold me tight like a straitjacket? ‘Cause I’m still alive right now, but I won’t be if you do that.”

The wings falter where they’d started to tighten, and then simply rest over Louis’ shoulders, like a warm blanket.

“Thank you,” Louis says.

He waits patiently for Faux-Harry to step out of the shadows. The room brightens up a bit when the windows that lead to nothing start appearing. The room is ornate, Louis realizes now that he’s not caught up on the fact that he’s dead. There is gold trim and crown moulding lining the entire room, the walls paneled with bright, shiny white wood. The floor is a soft white, possibly even the same material as the wings wrapped around Louis.

“Oh good, you’re here.”

Louis’ head snaps forward against his will. “Christ, will you stop that?” Louis whines. “I can look at you myself.”

“I am not Christ,” Faux-Harry says, confused. “I’ve told you this.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “And what do you mean, ‘oh good, you’re here’?’ I didn’t have much choice.”

“It doesn’t always work,” Faux-Harry says. “I’ve also told you that I don’t have unlimited power, Louis. Now, I don’t have much time. I need you, now more than ever, to stop feeling sorry for yourself and do your job. I understand that it must be a difficult situation to go through, but you have a mission.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do? It’s all on the doctors now. I—I tried, okay? I did everything I could, and I still failed.”

Faux-Harry tuts. “You would be surprised how strong the human body is when the mind cooperates. Recovering from injury is more about brain power than the immune system. And Harry is lacking in that.”

“What, you mean he’s weak?”

“No,” Faux-Harry gives him a meaningful look. “I mean that Harry, at present, feels that he doesn’t have much to live for. I can’t tell you everything, but I can tell you that he thinks if he recovers, he will go back to school and be taunted by everyone more so than he already is. That his parents—and you—will be disappointed in him for falling for everything Darrell said. That you do not reciprocate his romantic feelings.”

“What, he’s just giving up?” Louis asks incredulously. “I can’t—I can’t do anything. They’re not allowing visitors to his room, and even if they did, they’re keeping Harry asleep for a few more days. He can’t hear me talk to him.”

“You’re wrong about that,” Faux-Harry says. “You’ll see.”

+

The next person to come running through the doors is someone Louis never expected to show up. He looks guilt stricken, gripping the roots of his hair tightly and looking just on the verge of tears.

It’s Jamie.

“Louis?”

Louis stands up, disentangling himself from his mom. He decides it will be best if Harry’s parents don’t have to hear from Harry’s school bully at a time such as this. He takes Jamie into the next hall, where it’s significantly quieter. The chapel is down this hall somewhere, the cafeteria at the end.

“What are you doing here?” Louis asks sternly.

“I swear, Louis, I swear I didn’t tell Harry anything about the parking lot. You ripped up the note! I don’t—I don’t know how he found out to go there.”

“Coach told Harry himself, after we got rid of the note,” Louis says, barely holding back the rage bubbling in his chest. “But that doesn’t mean you’re guilt free. You fucking—You came up with the idea. You  _ wrote  _ Coach’s notes. You knew that Harry liked him, so you both teamed up to play an awful, sick joke on him. And now Harry is  _ here _ . You should be fucking ashamed of yourself.”

“I didn’t mean—” Jamie gasps, face falling apart in shock. “But it—it was just a joke! How was I supposed to know what he was planning?”

Louis can’t muster up even a bit of sympathy for the boy who has spent the last few months calling Harry every name in the book, embarrassing him in public, making him feel like no one cares about him. “I think you should leave.”

“No, wait!” Jamie pleads. “Please. I came here to apologise. I would say this to Harry himself, but—” he shakes his head. “I never meant for this to happen. I don’t even have a problem with queers—”

Louis coughs.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean that in a bad way,” Jamie says. “That’s not why this all started. Harry was an easy target, and I know that’s not a good excuse, but he was. It was so easy to get a reaction out of him that I couldn’t stop, and I took it too far. But I also wanted to say that Niall didn’t have anything to do with this. He was only there with the note earlier because—well, when Coach asked me to deliver the last note, Niall was still getting dressed, so he heard the whole thing, and then Niall said he would tell the principal that one of the employees was playing a prank on a student, but. Coach threatened him, like, threatened to hurt him if he told. That’s the only reason he was there, I promise.”

“Coach threatened to hurt Niall and you didn’t realize that  _ maybe _  you shouldn’t send Harry alone to an abandoned parking lot with him?”

“I’m sorry,” Jamie squeaks. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize it was a big deal until all this happened. I don’t know what else to say, I’m just so sorry.”

A new person steps into the hallway. “Hey Lou, everything alright?”

Louis looks at Liam and nods, though he goes over to him instead of continuing to talk with Jamie. “He was apologizing,” Louis whispers. “Not very well, though.”

“Okay, I’ll go,” Jamie interrupts. “Tell Harry what I told you, okay? I’ll come back later, if they’ll let me see him.”

With that, he leaves Louis and Liam alone in the hospital hallway, their best friend struggling to survive in the other room. Louis’ face crumples again. He wishes he could stop  _ fucking crying _ .

“Loubear,” Liam murmurs, folding Louis’ head under his chin. “I’m sorry this happened. You did everything you could’ve done, babe.”

“Not everything,” Louis says. “Could’ve not gotten lost, and I would’ve been waiting when Harry got there. Could’ve made Harry stay home today. Could’ve not let Harry out of my sight. Liam, I could’ve—”

“Shh,” Liam cuts him off, shaking his head. “Shut up, Lou. Stop beating yourself up. Harry is still alive, remember? He can still pull through.”

“I need to see him, to tell him—” Louis bites the inside of his cheek. “I need him to get better.”

+

The doctors test Harry for brain trauma, and Louis nearly falls over with relief when they say that he has nothing more dangerous than a concussion. A bad concussion, but nothing like a brain lesion or permanent brain damage.

“Can we see him?” Louis hears Anne ask.

“A nurse will find you in a little while, she’ll decide how many visitors and for how long are allowed.”

Louis sinks back into his chair, frowning. At this rate, it’ll be days before he’ll be able to see Harry, and Harry may not have that long to wait. Louis almost considers begging Harry’s parents to let him go first, and then feels shame welling up in his chest so strong that it roots him to the chair. Who does he think he is, acting like he’s more important than Harry’s own parents?

Heavy shoes down the hallway floor make everyone’s heads lift in curiosity. They see the glint of a badge, first, and then the full uniform of three police officers heading straight towards them. Towards Louis, really. He can already tell.

Louis shifts nervously, standing up without being asked to.

“We need to speak to Louis Tomlinson,” the first officer says. “And anyone else involved in the situation in the lot on 4th Street.”

_ The situation _ . As if an attempted murder could only be a  _ situation _ .

Tom and Lou startle from where they were almost dozing off. They stand slightly behind Louis as they all follow the police around the corner.

“We really should be taking you to the station,” one of them says. “But considering the circumstances, we don’t want to cuff you for no reason, especially with that,” he gestures to Louis’ broken arm. “So we’re taking you to the chapel.”

The chapel is all white except for one wall of stained glass in the shape of a cross. It’s empty and silent. An officer puts a sign on the door that says  _ closed for cleaning _ , and then sits down on a bench. The other two officers stand by the door, out of their way.

“I appreciate your cooperation,” he nods, laying out a notepad on his lap and pressing a button on a tape recorder. “I believe we can get this questioning done and over with in a short amount of time, but it’s all up to you.”

He recites the Miranda rights, while writing something else down on his paper. When he finishes, he says, “Would any of you prefer to have a lawyer present before speaking?”

Louis can’t imagine that a lawyer would be able to help him any, not when Louis didn’t commit any crime. Tom and Lou, though—Louis remembers the knife slashing Coach’s neck and shivers.

“I—I think we would like a lawyer,” Lou stutters. Tom agrees.

The officer nods, and then waves to one of the other men by the door. Lou and Tom are corralled out of the chapel quickly, leaving Louis alone with one officer in front of him and another guarding the door.

“Let’s get started, then,” he says. “I am Officer Maron. I’m here to help you. I don’t want to waste your time, because I know you must be anxious to get back to your friend, Harry.”

“They’re not allowing visitors yet anyway,” Louis says, sighing. “I’ll tell you everything, just—can you tell me if Coach Darrell is dead?”

“No, he’s not dead,” Officer Maron says. “He is also in the ICU here, but he’ll be moved to a regular hospital unit in a few days. He’s recovering well.”

Louis clenches his fists.  _ How is that fair? How can it be fair that that bastard gets to be healthy and Harry is so close to death? _

“Can you start at the beginning for me, Louis? Tell me how you met Harry Styles.”

Louis blinks at his shoes, the black Vans scuffed up beyond recognition. “I was wearing my sister’s sparkly pink shoes,” Louis says, laughing despite the heaviness of the air. “I was in a rush that morning and grabbed the first pair I saw. Harry, he—He thought they were cool. He told me he liked them. These guys had just been calling him names and, you know, being assholes to him, so I think he liked that I was okay with wearing something like that to school.”

“What were they calling him?”

“Any uncreative thing you could think of. They always do. Fag, queer, homo, anything.”

“Why do they call him that?”

Louis blinks. “Because he’s gay?”

Officer Maron nods and scribbles it down. “Were you two…”

“Together? No.”

Louis feels a little prickly about where the conversation is going, so he says, indignantly, “I was with my boyfriend Liam.”

If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. “When did all of your classmates find out that Harry is gay?”

“In September. I don’t remember how it happened, but one day Harry was the most well-liked football player in school, and the next he was kicked off the team and everyone knew he liked guys. I think he wanted to come out, but I don’t know if it was ultimately his choice.”

“Has Harry been romantically involved with anyone?”

Louis shakes his head. “No. Everyone always thought he was dating all these girls, but really they were just his friends. He’s never been with a guy before, I know that. It’s why he was so willing to meet Coach in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

“Let’s talk about Darrell Hayes for a moment,” Officer Maron says. Louis doesn’t think he’s ever even heard Coach’s last name before. “You’ve been on his soccer team since the beginning of this school year, Sophomore year, correct?”

Louis nods.

“Can you describe his usual demeanor?”

“He’s always been an asshole,” Louis says frankly. “Always. He yells at us the whole practice, and not in a coach kind of way. Not encouraging. He yells insults and calls us rude names. He’s the one that started making everyone call me Twinkie,” Louis rolls his eyes. “And he’ll push us down or trip us or hit us in the arm if we’re not doing a good enough job for him.”

“Has he ever appeared to be homophobic?”

“What do you think?” Louis scoffs. “Of course he’s homophobic.”

“Do you believe Harry did anything to provoke the attack?”

Louis’ fingers twitch. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Did Harry do anything that would make Mr. Hayes angry?”

Louis stands up, eyebrows set in a firm line. “You’ve got to be kidding me right now. Harry is barely alive right now after an  _ attempted murder _ , and you want to ask me if Harry did something to make Coach angry? Fuck you.”

The second officer by the door side steps to let him through, the chapel doors slamming open and shut behind him as he storms back into the waiting area.

Anne and Robin are missing.

Louis’ mom is still sitting in her chair, a fresh cup of coffee in her hands. “Hi, baby,” she says. Louis sits next to her. “The nurse came back out. They’ve got Harry in his own room now, and he’s stable enough for one visitor at a time. Anne and Robin are taking turns. Just a few minutes ago Anne came and told me that if you want to see him tonight, they’ll let you have a few minutes.”

Louis’ eyes well up again but the tears don’t fall. This is good news. It’s good news, but it doesn’t mean Harry is any healthier than he was twenty minutes ago.

“Mom?” he whispers. “Be honest—do you think he’ll make it?”

He can tell that she’s taking his question seriously, deliberating it. Louis trusts her opinion.

“I do,” she says. “I do, because there are so many people here who care about him and want to see him well. That’s really the most important thing. It happens a lot, with victims of trauma, where there’s no one to come visit, no one to tell them that they’ll be alright. Those ones almost never make it. Harry won’t have to feel alone for a single second with all of you here.”

Louis rests his head on her shoulder and allows himself a single, small smile.

+

There’s a drain in Harry’s abdomen. It's the first thing Louis notices, since his injury has been bandaged up and out of sight. The tube sticks right out of Harry’s skin, fluid dripping into a little bottle next to him.

“Make sure you don’t move him around too much,” the nurse instructs, adjusting something on the IV and then making note of it on the clipboard at the foot of the bed. “And if you need help for anything, press the red button on the remote.”

Louis nods, and then she leaves him alone.

He makes his way to the bed, sitting down gingerly on the edge. The machines are beeping at a constant pace, reassuring Louis that Harry is still alive, but he hovers his hand over Harry’s chest anyway, just to feel him breathing. “Harry,” he whispers, feeling a surprising amount of relief, rather than sadness. He thought seeing Harry like this would make him feel worse, but all he can feel is happy that Harry even made it here. “Harry, I’m so sorry. I’ll explain everything when you wake up, I promise. Right now, you concentrate on getting better, okay? That’s the only thing you should worry about. Because—Because I love you. And your parents, and Liam, and my family, we all love you and want to see you get better.”

Louis finds Harry’s hand, limp but warm, and squeezes. “In the library—when I pushed you away, I didn’t mean that I didn’t want you kissing me,” he says shakily. “I just didn’t imagine our first kiss to be at school, of all places, where anyone could see. But I don’t care anymore. If you still want to be with me—and  _ God _ , I hope you do—then I don’t care who knows. You’re worth it.”

There’s a part of Louis that expects the heart monitor to speed up, or for Harry’s hand to twitch, or for his hands to pull Louis closer and plant his lips on him, but all that’s there is the steady  _ buh-bum, buh-bum _  and the gentle stillness of Harry’s sleeping body.

Louis kisses Harry’s nose with his eyes closed, savoring the last moments with him. “Your mom is waiting outside,” he explains. “She’d never kick me out, but I can tell she wants back in to see you. I’ll still be right outside, okay? I’m not leaving until  _ you _  tell me to.”

He takes one last look at Harry’s bruised, cut up body, the drain and the huge bandage on his abdomen, the deep scrapes at his hairline—Harry will be happy that they didn’t need to shave him to stitch them up. “I love you,” he says, kissing his cheek again.

Anne pretends that she wasn’t eagerly watching through the curtains when Louis walks out. She pauses, laying a hand on Louis’ forearm. Her eyes are swimming with compassion and fear and love and grief. “Thank you,” she says. “I don’t know exactly what happened, or how you knew he’d be there, but thank you, Louis.”

+

Liam is waiting for him back in the hallway. He discreetly waves a pack of cigarettes in his hand and jerks his head towards the end of the hallway. Louis could kiss him. He hadn’t realized he’d been craving a smoke until he sees one in his hand. They avoid Louis’ mom’s eyes and start walking out of the building.

“Thanks, man,” Louis says, taking the pack once they make it through the double doors and the chilly air and the afternoon sun spills over them. They could go to the smoking lounge if they wanted, but Louis doesn’t feel like dying today—the amount of smoke in there is cloying even for him.

He takes one and lights it, tugging the pack away from Liam when he seems to be reaching for one himself. “Don’t start,” Louis says sternly.

Liam rolls his eyes. “My friend just got fucking stabbed in the stomach, I think I deserve a smoke.”

“No, see, that’s how it starts,” Louis says. He remembers walking with Harry to the diner, hearing him criticize smoking, and suddenly the smoke in his lungs feels a lot less good. “I’m gonna quit, because—I would anyway, next year, but I don’t want Harry getting even sicker ‘cause I breathed on him with cigarette breath and then he gets an infection.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” Liam says. “But fine. Harry will be happy.”

Louis deliberates for a second, and then walks to the trash, stubbing his cigarette out and throwing it in. “There,” he says, throwing the pack in after. “All done.”

Liam rolls his eyes again, but he seems pleased, too. “Harry is good for you,” he says quietly. “I mean that. You’re—You were happier. When you and Harry got closer, you were happier than I could ever make you.”

“That’s not true,” Louis says. “You made me happy. You still make me happy.”

“But not like that,” Liam finishes. “It’s okay, honestly. The more I think about it, the more I realize that we’re more compatible as friends and maybe we should have left it that way.”

_ Compatible _ . Liam must really have thought about this if he’s bringing out a big word like that.

Louis pulls Liam in for a hug, kissing his collarbone even though it’s not his to kiss anymore. They don’t speak—they don’t need to. It’s enough to feel Liam’s arms around him, Louis’ head on his chest. It’s enough.

When they eventually separate, Louis looks out at the hospital parking lot, the mountains in the distance, the river that flows throughout the city. The sun has long since risen, a new day almost half over already. It doesn’t feel like Louis has been at the hospital for this long.

“What if he doesn’t get better?” Louis dares to ask, looking at the mountains so he doesn’t have to look at Liam’s face.

“We can’t think about that.”

“But what if he doesn’t? What if I lose him? I—”

Liam puts his arm around Louis and kisses his temple. There are no words in the English dictionary that could come close enough to comforting Louis, so they stand in silence once more.

+

Sometime between Saturday and Sunday, the doctors start weaning Harry off the medication that’s been keeping him asleep since Thursday night.

While everyone is happy to hear it, there isn’t a single person in the room who isn’t scared of it, too. Waking Harry up means that he’ll be faced with his own reality, that he’ll have to come to terms with everything that happened. It means that he’ll have to make the conscious choice to keep fighting for his life.

Louis has had a cramp in his thighs for ages now, despite how many times he’s gotten up to stretch. He reluctantly went home last night to shower and get some sleep, after his mom begged him to the point of crying. As soon as he’d woken up, he’d rolled out of bed and made his way back to the hospital. Not everyone has stayed all day, every day. Even Anne and Robin go home to sleep. Liam filters in and out, only coming, for the most part, to be there for Louis. It’s not like he doesn’t care about Harry, he’s just better at letting things happen the way they’re supposed to happen. Louis’ mom got called into work on Friday, so Louis still sees her in the halls occasionally. Though she asked not to be put in as Harry’s nurse because she knew it would be unprofessional.

The swelling in Louis’ arm goes down enough that he gets put in a real cast. They don’t usually do that at the hospital, but they make an exception considering he’s already there. It’s plain white and huge, knocking into everything uncomfortably. It’s hard to sleep with, too.

“Woah, man, sick,” Liam says when he first sees it. “Want me to sign it?”

Louis shifts. “I sort of wanted to wait, so Harry could be the first to sign it.”

Liam, always understanding even when he doesn’t really  _ get _  something, nods and says, “Okay.”

They increase the allowed visitors to two people at a time, just before they predict Harry will start waking up. Louis says ‘start’ because, as it was explained to him, waking up from a medically induced coma is a gradual process, not an instantaneous event. The nurses warned everyone that Harry might not act like himself since he’ll be so confused and scared.

Louis and Liam get to see him together.

Harry is still intubated and that drain sticking out of his abdomen will be there for a while yet, but somehow he looks healthier. That may only be wishful thinking, but Louis swears he sees a little bit more color in Harry’s cheeks.

“Hey, Haz,” Louis says, kissing his cheek. “Doctors say you’ll be up and awake soon. And, you know, it’d be super cool if you woke up on  _ my _  watch, so if you wanted to just open your eyes, maybe?”

The machine steadily beeps beside him. Harry doesn’t move.

Louis shrugs with a small laugh. “Worth a shot.”

“Oh, and Liam’s here too,” Louis says, nudging Liam closer to Harry. “I forget that you’re asleep sometimes, since, like, you can hear what I’m saying. Well, sort of. I’d like to think you can hear me.”

Liam awkwardly pats Harry on the forearm, above three needles stuck in his skin. “Hey, Harry,” he says. “Good to see you. I mean—not good that you’re here, but. Yeah. Sorry. I feel like a weirdo talking to a sleeping person.”

They sit down after that, on the squishy couch next to the bed. They talk to each other rather than to Harry, though neither of them ever take their eyes off him. At some point, a nurse comes in and says she’s going to check Harry’s wound, and that they can stay or wait in the hallway. Louis knows he would break down upon seeing it, so he lunges for the door.

When the nurse calls out saying they can come back in now, she seems pleased.

“No sign of infection yet, let’s hope it stays that way,” she says. “And I noticed that when I switched out the bandages—which, in and of itself, is not painful, but when it first touches the wound, it can hurt—he flinched a little. When someone is in a coma, they can’t feel pain. It means Harry is starting to wake up already.”

Louis gives a small smile, sitting on Harry’s bed again, painstakingly careful not to jostle him. “Wait, does that mean he’s hurting right now?”

The nurse shakes her head. “No, probably not. He’s taking a lot of medicine. Only when his body is moved or the wound is checked, but even then, it’s a dulled feeling.”

She putters around the room, checking his machines and writing things down. “It’s terrible, what happened to him,” she says, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t be telling you this at all, but I was also assigned to be Darrell Hayes’ nurse, and I had to decline it. I pretended that we were related so I wouldn’t have to help him. Such a sick man.”

Louis’ fists clench. “Is he better already?”

Louis had always thought that cutting someone’s neck is a done deal. It always is in the movies, anyway.

“He is, yes,” she sighs. “It was a surface wound, it didn’t cut the artery. All they had to do was stop the bleeding and stitch him up. He’s in the recovery ward now, with police supervision, obviously.”

Louis looks at the heart monitor, the breathing tube in Harry’s throat, thinks about the nightmares Harry will have, the pervasive fear and paranoia and anxiety he’ll feel even if he does recover, and he feels anger so blinding that he has to close his eyes. He rubs his hands over his eyelids, taking deep breaths like his mom has been making him do whenever he gets too stressed or sad.

There’s a horrible, loud noise, a choking, coughing sound. When Louis opens his eyes, Harry is frantically reaching for his mouth, trying to pull out the tube, but his hands are too weak to get a grip on it. The nurse immediately pushes his arms back down, holding them still while she says, “Press the button, please.”

Somehow, even while panic is filling Louis’ chest so tightly he can’t breathe, the nurse appears calm, like she expected this. Louis finds the remote and slams his finger down on the red button. It’s not long before two more nurses are in the room, wrapping soft pieces of fabric around Harry’s wrists and the rings on the side of the bed. They’re like handcuffs, Louis realizes.

By the time Harry is properly restrained to the bed, he’s back asleep, as if nothing had ever happened. As if he hadn’t just scared the  _ shit _  out of Louis.

The two extra nurses leave again, but the first one stays. She makes sure the fabric isn’t too tight, and then says, “Don’t worry about that, please. This happens a lot. When you wake up, disoriented, and you feel that there’s something down your throat and all these tubes attached to you, it’s scary. It’s human nature to want to escape.”

Louis nods, and resists going back over to Harry’s bed. If he could, he’d be laying next to Harry again, but he doesn’t want to get in the way or make Harry uncomfortable when he wakes up again.

The nurse eventually leaves, with a reminder to press the button whenever they need help.

“We should probably let Harry’s parents in now,” Liam says, glancing at the window where the two of them are sitting outside being told what just happened. They’ll definitely want to see Harry again.

Louis nods and stands up. He can’t resist kissing Harry on the cheek again before he goes.

+

The noise Harry makes when he wakes up never changes. It’s a gurgling, grating sound that’s terrible for anyone who can hear it. Even when Harry can’t use his hands to rip out the breathing tube, he thrashes around—as best as he can when it causes him so much pain—and makes noise, trying to dislodge it from his throat. Every time Louis hears it from where he’s waiting in the chairs, it makes his heart sink to his stomach.

There is one time, very late at night on Sunday, when Anne and Robin and Liam and Louis’ mom have all gone home to sleep, when Louis gets to sit at Harry’s bedside by himself. Louis is almost dozing off himself, when he takes another look at Harry. His eyes are open, blinking, but he’s not struggling. There are tears falling down his cheeks, but he’s not kicking or yelling or trying to break his hands free from the soft restraints.

Louis kneels on the bed, using the gentlest fingers to wipe away his tears. “Oh, Haz,” he murmurs, unsure if Harry is even conscious enough to know who he is. If he’s not fighting, maybe he’s finally realized he’s at the hospital, being taken care of. “I know that—you must be so scared right now. The breathing tube feels horrible, but it’s keeping you alive. And you’re hurting yourself every time you try to take it out.”

Harry, of course, has no ability to respond, but Louis’ not even sure he would if he could.

Louis makes sure Harry is comfortable, fluffing up his pillows and pulling the blankets around him a little higher. “Good?” he asks, watching Harry carefully.

Harry gives him the smallest nod, so small that it could have only been a coincidence, but then Harry’s eyes close on a blink and stay closed, his head falling a little deeper into the pillow.

“I love you,” Louis whispers.

+

The first time Louis sees Harry fully awake happens the next day. They’ve finally weaned Harry off the medication completely, now only giving him his pain meds.

Still, it’s a process. Louis happens to be asleep for most of it—he’d fallen asleep on Harry’s couch, and when Anne got back to the hospital in the morning, she didn’t have the heart to wake him up and tell him to leave the room.

Later, she tells Louis that Harry was calmer, not trying to scream anymore, being so good that the nurse took off the soft restraints. He was crying the whole time, though.

Louis wakes up to see Harry’s eyes open, a nurse in the room checking on him, and Anne sitting next to Louis on the couch. He hears, “It will be easier to check him for infection now that he’s awake. There are a few symptoms that machines can’t read, like nausea, loss of appetite, extreme thirst; things like that. So once he’s able to speak, if he mentions any of these things, make sure you tell us.”

The nurse notices Louis has woken up, and says, “Morning, Louis,” on her way out.

Louis sneaks a glance at the whiteboard by the door which has the name of the nurse on duty written there. “G’ Morning, Julie.”

Then she leaves, and it starts to set in that Harry is awake.

“You’re awake,” Louis says dumbly, smiling at him. “I—I’m sorry I was asleep.”

Harry still looks pretty out of it, but maybe that’s only because the tube prevents any facial expression at all except blinking.

Anne turns to Louis and says, “They’re starting the tests to make sure he’s ready to be extubated. They’re already decreasing his dependence on it and he’s doing well, so they think it could happen today.”

“That’s great,” Louis says, because he doesn’t know how to put  _ I’m so scared that if Harry can speak again, I’ll have to face the reality that Harry isn’t the same Harry anymore _  into words. What if Harry resents Louis for not kissing him back? What if he blames Louis for getting lost and breaking his arm when Harry needed him most? What if Harry simply doesn’t want to be his friend anymore because Louis reminds him too much of the attack?

_ That’s ridiculous _ , Louis tells himself.  _ Harry loves you. _

+

The nurses are surprisingly good at knowing what Harry is trying to ask for without words. There’s a blink once for yes, blink twice for no system going on, but even without that, they all seem to be able to know what Harry is thinking just by looking at him.

Still, it’s a relief when the tube comes out.

It’s awful to watch. Harry looks so uncomfortable and upset—and who wouldn’t be, when a huge tube is being pulled out from your throat—during and after the process, so much so that he immediately goes to sleep when he’s able to breathe on his own again.

Anne’s hands are shaking, tears building up in her eyes. Louis puts his hand over hers and squeezes.

“This is a good thing,” she whispers. “But—But I can’t stand seeing him hurting.”

They grip onto each other's hands for an hour, watching Harry nap. It isn’t a sound sleep, what with all the tossing and turning Harry is doing. They’re just about to wake him up, for fear of him accidentally ripping his IV out or disturbing the drain, when Harry lets out an ear-piercing scream—hoarse from not using his voice for so long—and his eyes fly open.

“Baby,” Anne sobs, rushing forward to cradle him in her arms. In Harry’s panic, he brushes her hands off and wraps his arms around himself instead. Anne respects his wishes to not be touched, but Louis can see her heart breaking.

Nurse Julie comes in with a little cart that she places next to Harry on the bed. It has a few magazines and an empty bucket on the bottom, and a cup of something on top.

“Hi, Harry,” she says, fussing over Harry’s blankets. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Harry doesn’t respond, but the way he squeezes himself tighter says enough.

“Harry, I need you to please stop holding yourself so tightly,” she says. Her voice is soothing. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Harry looks down at his abdomen, staring at the drain, following it down the line until it ends at a bag half-filled with liquid.

“Do you want me to explain what that is?” Julie asks.

There’s a pause, where everyone thinks Harry will ignore her again, but then he nods.

“That’s called a percutaneous abdominal drain. It helps prevent infection by draining out a lot of fluids that could leak out of your intestines and go into parts of your body where they shouldn’t be. If an infection does occur, we can use the drain to take some of it out, so your immune system doesn’t have to work as hard to get rid of it. Does that make sense?”

Harry’s fingers twitch as he lightens up on his grip, laying his hands back down at his sides.

“Thank you,” Julie says, and then grabs the paper cup from her cart. “This is for when you get thirsty. Right now, we can’t let you drink much water, but this is a little sponge you can suck on so your throat won’t feel so dry.”

Harry eagerly reaches for it, his shaky hands holding onto the popsicle stick like it’s something precious. He puts the whole sponge in his mouth and sucks on it for only a second, then pulling it out and holding it up like he wants more.

“I’m sorry, that’s all I can give you,” Julie says apologetically. “In an hour, I’ll refill it.”

Harry holds the stick out further, his eyes pleading. He even croaks out a small, “Please.”

Julie sighs. “I really can’t give you another, but I wish I could. I promise, in exactly an hour I’ll be back with a new one.”

Harry pouts, defeated, and puts the sponge back in his mouth even though it’s dry.

+

Though Harry is still only speaking as little as he’s required to, Louis can tell that he’s not feeling well. He starts sweating during a nap, kicking all his blankets off and breathing heavily. When Louis calls a nurse in to check his temperature, they find that Harry is running a fever of 105 degrees.

“What does that mean?” Louis asks, the pit in his stomach growing when he sees Julie’s worried expression.

“It could mean a lot of things,” she says. “Fevers happen when your body is working hard to get rid of something. It could be anything; a cold, pneumonia, or—”

She doesn’t need to finish her sentence. It could be anything, but it’s not. It’s what they’ve all been so scared of since the very first time the doctor spoke to them. Louis is sitting right here, watching Harry’s likelihood of survival plummet to a 50/50 chance. That’s not even counting the trauma he’s already trying to heal from.  _ Fuck _ .

Harry wakes up before Julie can offer any response. He’s shaking, his teeth chattering. He pulls the blankets up past his shoulders, rubbing his cheek on the soft blanket.

“Harry?” Julie says, simultaneously reaching for the pager in her scrubs pocket. “You’re running a high grade fever. I need you to tell me right away if you feel any worse than you do right now. If you’re nauseous, more tired than before, or you feel bloated, I need you to tell me.”

Harry blinks and then starts to nod, his head only barely moving before his face goes white, mouth wobbling. Louis thinks he might cry, but Julie is smarter. She grabs the bucket from the bottom of the cart, thrusting it in front of Harry just before he starts gagging.

There’s nothing that could possibly be expelled from his stomach—his stomach has been empty for almost a week now. All that comes up is bile. Louis can only imagine how painful it must be.

Julie holds the bucket in one hand and quickly presses a few buttons on her pager.

It takes a few minutes, but finally a doctor enters the room. Harry has finished puking, but now his face is scrunched together tightly as he’s whimpering.

The doctor examines Harry, trading a few quiet words with Julie, and then orders a string of tests that Louis has never heard of before. Julie writes them all down on her clipboard, nodding in agreement. “Let’s get him started on the amoxicillin and clavulanate today,” the doctor says. “We’ll reevaluate when the tests come back, but I’d rather get a start at the bacteria right away.”

They leave, eventually, promising to come back shortly with new medicine and to check on Harry again. In the meantime, Louis is ordered to sit next to Harry and hold the bucket, just in case.

Louis feels numb. There was, of course, a huge part of him that expected this to happen. But somehow, seeing it actually happen is something Louis didn’t prepare for. How is he supposed to prepare himself for the fact that Harry might die? Just like that? All of his suffering and fighting, ending for nothing.

The thought of living without Harry makes his palms sweat, his head spin. He remembers Harry’s headstone in the cemetery, the angel with the wings wrapped around him for protection. He’d felt sick seeing it before he even  _ knew _  Harry. How could he ever return there now that he has seen what a beautiful person Harry is?

+

_ Peritonitis; inflammation of the membrane lining the abdominal wall and covering the abdominal organs _ .

_ May need surgery. _

_ Can be life threatening. _

Louis spends the day with his head in his hands, waiting outside Harry’s room. They’ve dropped the visitors back down to one person at a time.

Louis’ mom comes around to check on him whenever she has a second to spare, rubbing his shoulders and whispering to him all the ways Harry could still recover. It’s a nice thought, but nothing can quell the anxiety that has settled in his chest and made a home.

He sees Harry only once that day, when Anne becomes so hungry that she nearly passes out and is forced to go to the cafeteria. Harry is still responsive, though he’s drowsy and half-awake. They gave him medicine to stop the nausea, or else he’d rip out his staples vomiting again. His eyes are glazed over and—he looks scared. Louis had half a hope that Harry would be too confused to understand what this infection means for his health. He doesn’t want Harry to be scared.

When Harry notices him entering the room, he holds out his popsicle stick with a sponge on it, pleading, “Please, need more.”

Louis wants more than anything to ease Harry’s discomfort, if even a little bit. Still, he says, “Haz, I can’t. You have to ask Julie.”

“Already did,” Harry chokes, eyes watering. “ _ Please _ .”

Louis could never say no to Harry. He warily takes the sponge and runs it under the faucet in the room, only for a few seconds, and then hands it back to Harry. He greedily takes it, sucking on it until it’s bone dry. Thankfully, he doesn’t ask Louis to refill it, though he looks like he desperately wants to.

They sit in silence for a long time, Harry’s eyes opening and closing slowly, falling asleep. He sleeps so much now.

A glance at the window tells Louis that Anne is peeking in, waiting for her turn.

“I gotta go now,” Louis says. Harry opens his eyes lazily, nodding. “Your mom wants back in. But I—”

Louis bites his lip, letting it go with a breath of air. “I love you, Haz,” he whispers, staring at the floor so he doesn’t have to look at Harry’s face. “So, so fucking much. Please get better. Please—”

He shakes his head, looking at the ceiling to keep the tears at bay.

Harry’s voice is still croaky and deep—under different circumstances, Louis would be having a field day with all the frog jokes—but he sounds crystal clear when he says, “I love you too.”

+

There’s a lot of waiting. Waiting to see if the peritonitis gets worse, waiting to see if the antibiotics start working, waiting to see if more complications arise, waiting to see if surgery is necessary.  _ Waiting, waiting, waiting _ .

By the time Harry gets out of the hospital, Louis thinks he’ll be the most patient man in the world.

While Louis is waiting to be let in to see Harry, he enlists Liam’s help to make a quick trip to his house and pick up his cassette player. He takes his entire tub of tapes with him, not sure what Harry will want to listen to. He finds himself wishing he did own some Queen, no matter what people would think about it.

He’s only been away from the hospital for an hour now, and he’s already feeling twitchy, but he makes the stop at Harry’s house anyway. He throws every Queen tape Harry has in the bucket.

When Louis can finally go see Harry, he brings the player in and sets it on Harry’s bedside table. “What should we listen to?”

For the first time since the doctor delivered the news about the infection, Harry smiles. “Anything.”

They start from the beginning of Queen’s discography and listen until the most recent, most of which Louis has never had the pleasure of hearing before. There are many times when nurses come check on Harry, and they eventually bump the visitor limit back up to two, so Anne and Robin can take turns coming in. Neither of them ask Louis to leave, and neither of them dare turn the music down, not when it’s making Harry so happy.

When Bohemian Rhapsody eventually comes on, Louis’ finger hovers over the skip button, but he doesn’t press it.

Harry flinches first, and then relaxes. He starts to sing.

His voice is worn out, despite not being used hardly at all, and he can’t move too much or it hurts, but he sings anyway.

Anne’s eyes are watering, but she sings too. Both of them look at Louis encouragingly when the next line comes along, and Louis laughs while he sings along with them.

“Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see. I’m just a poor boy, I need no sympathy…”

The entire duration of the song goes uninterrupted by nurses and doctors, leaving them to their moment. As soon as the last notes ring out, Julie is bustling in and checking his temperature again, smirking as she says, “You all are good singers.”

Harry’s fever has gone up by a degree, which puts a furrow in Julie’s brow, but it’s not in the emergency territory yet.

“The medicine should start working soon,” she says to Harry over the sound of God Save the Queen. “And then you’ll start feeling a little better, okay? I’m glad you’re having fun, though.”

Harry smiles again, and Louis feels like things might just be getting better.

+

“Harry’s fever has gone down,” Louis hears, as he’s being gently shaken awake. “Sorry for waking you, I just thought you’d want to know.”

Louis blinks blearily at Anne, and then, when the words sink in, he grins. “That’s—good, right? What’s that mean?”

“The medicine is actually working,” Anne says. “That’s what they were so afraid of, that the medicine wouldn’t be able to stop the infection, but it’s working now.”

Louis feels the pin prick of tears in the corners of his eyes, but he ignores them. For once, they’re not the bad kind of tears.

More good news just keeps coming as time goes on.

The wounds are healing properly again. The inflammation has gone down. Harry can drink water and eat small bits of food again. He can walk. The drain can  _ finally _  come out, now that it’s all dried up.

It all starts to pile up, the good news. Watching Harry slowly get healthier and healthier is one of the most rewarding things Louis has ever seen. He goes from sleeping fourteen hours a day and not speaking much to laughing and singing and reading some of his textbooks so he won’t be so behind when he goes back to school—something that Louis should really be doing as well.

It all feels  _ real _  when Harry gets moved out of the ICU and into a regular room. It means they have to say goodbye to Nurse Julie, who’s job is strictly in the ICU, though she sneaks down to Harry’s room every few days on her lunch break, just to check up on him.

Harry is  _ better  _ now. There were times when Louis was so sure that he would lose Harry, that he’d wake up from a nap and Harry would be in the midst of being wheeled in for emergency surgery, never to come out again. Louis’ mom warned him that it could happen, even as she tried keeping him calm with reassurances that it won’t. Now that Harry is in no danger of dying like that, Louis can’t quite figure out how to tone down his adrenaline. It was so intense for so long, wondering if Harry would be alive the next time he woke up, that he can’t seem to tell his body to calm down.

Though, if Louis had to pick one outcome he wanted to come out of this situation, this would be it.

+

“They’re releasing me tonight at six,” Harry says, the first words he’s spoken in hours.

Louis, of course, already knew when they were going to release him, but he smiles and pretends to be surprised anyway. “That’s great, Haz,” he says. “Excited?”

Harry shrugs, picking at a blanket. “I don’t know. I guess I am. It’s pretty boring here, but—”

Louis shifts closer to him, the bed frame creaking quietly. He offers a supportive hand on Harry’s forearm, newly freed of any needles. It’s easier to cuddle with him now that the drain is out of his abdomen, but Harry still gets a little twitchy when people touch him without easing into it, so Louis sticks to just the hand.

“Everyone at school knows what happened, and they’re all gonna ask me— _ why did you go to that parking lot, didn’t you know it was stupid? _ , and ask to see my scars, and—and make fun of me. I don’t think—”

He starts getting worked up, the beeps of the heart monitor steadily increasing in frequency.

Louis nudges his forehead to Harry’s neck, waiting for him to tense up, and letting out a breath when he doesn’t. He lays his head on his shoulder, wrapping his other arm behind Harry’s back. “I won’t let anyone do that to you, Harry. Me or Liam will be with you the whole day, you won’t be alone for even a second,” he pauses. “Well, if you need to use the bathroom, we won’t follow you in the stall or anything. But the point is, nobody's gonna say  _ shit _  to you that you don’t want to hear. Okay?”

Louis can feel Harry’s cheek muscles tugging into a small smile. “Okay.”

Nurse Julie stops in a few minutes later, giggling at their position. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better, Harry,” she says. “Anyway, I begged my boss to let me fill out your discharge papers and he finally let me. So can I take a quick peek at the scars?”

Louis starts to get up, knowing that Harry likes his privacy, but Harry nervously holds him still. “You can stay,” he whispers. “I mean—it doesn’t look too horrifying anymore, right Julie?”

“It was never horrifying,” Julie tuts. “But I do suppose it’s looking much better.”

Settling back into place, Louis does his best to neutralize his expression to hide the joy he feels knowing Harry trusts him enough to let him see him without his shirt. He wouldn’t want to be grinning like a fool upon seeing Harry’s stab wound.

They’d let Harry change into more comfortable clothes yesterday, a loose t-shirt and sweatpants replacing his gown. Julie tugs up on Harry’s shirt, holding it to his chest.

The wound itself is small, only a few inches wide and mostly oval-shaped, to the right of Harry’s belly button. The most attention grabbing thing is the long laparotomy scar that runs all the way from the bottom of his chest to the top of his pants line. The staples are out now, but they’ve left little dots all along the line on both sides, lending it the “zipper” nickname Harry has been using. The two scars are still a dark pink color, and because of the earlier infection, they’re raised a little higher than the rest of Harry’s skin, but they’re almost completely healed now. They’ve closed up enough that any bacteria won’t be able to get into the wound, making the team confident enough to send Harry home.

“Harry,” Julie says, seemingly getting choked up. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you better.”

Julie was Harry’s nurse for almost two months, during the worst time in Harry’s life; they were bound to form a connection.

Harry smiles at her sheepishly. “I’ll come visit, I promise.”

“You better!” Julie laughs. She pulls Harry’s shirt back into its original place and gives a perfunctory check to Harry’s vitals—they’re the same as they have been for a week now, but as long as Harry is still in the hospital, it’s required.

“A different nurse is helping you check out today,” she says. “Have all your stuff packed by five thirty. And you’ve already made appointments with the physical therapist, yeah?” she watches Harry nod, and then finishes with, “It’s been an absolute pleasure, Harry.”

Harry makes grabby hands for a hug, and Julie laughs, but complies anyway. He squeezes her tight, his chin on her shoulder. “Thanks, Jules.”

“What have I said about professionalism?” she scolds, but her eyes are too bright to be annoyed.

When she leaves, Harry seems to be in a considerably better mood than before.

There are only a few hours before Harry has to start checking out, and only about an hour before Anne and Robin arrive from work to take him home. “Want to take a nap?” Harry suggests, taking away some of the pillows behind him so he can lie down.

“I’d love to,” Louis says, curling up next to Harry.

There are a million things they could be talking about. Serious things. But instead, they nap. And by the time Harry’s parents enter the room, they’ve intertwined themselves completely, arms and legs locked together in their sleep.

(Anne, who had already packed a camera in her purse to document Harry’s release, snaps a picture of them, probably cooing at the same time.)

+

“I missed this place,” Harry says, out of breath from the short walk to the library. He collapses down into his usual chair, sighing in relief. “God, it’d be nice not to feel like I just ran a marathon every time I take three steps, though.”

The surgeons had to cut through all of Harry’s ab muscles, and though they’re healed now, he’ll have to regain all his strength from scratch. Being on bed rest and so sick for so long certainly didn’t help, as he’d lost muscle in all parts of his body. It’s a wonder that he can even get anywhere without a walker.

Louis takes his seat next to Harry, surveying the library. Not much has changed in their absence, and Louis doesn’t know whether that’s comforting or unsettling. It feels like they were gone for ages, but they weren’t. A few months in the grand scheme of things isn’t long at all.

They’re only sitting down for a few minutes, before they hear footsteps approaching.

They glance around for the source of the noise, spotting Niall walking towards them while biting his nails. Louis shares a look with Harry, who doesn’t seem like he wants Niall to go away, so Louis lets him get closer.

“Harry,” Niall says quietly, disregarding Louis entirely to stare at him. “I can’t believe what happened, I—I tried to go see you twice, in the hospital, but the first time you weren’t allowed visitors and the second time you weren’t doing very well and they told me it would be better if I went home.”

He says it all in such a rush that both of them have to strain to understand him.

Harry clears his throat and looks at his hands. “I didn’t know you came to see me.”

“Well, I didn’t make it past the front desk,” Niall bites his lip. “But I left you a card, didn’t you get it?”

Harry squints, shaking his head. “No?”

“Guess the receptionists aren’t very good delivery men,” Niall laughs nervously. “Well, uh. I’m glad you’re better now. We should—we should catch up, sometime,” he says. “It’s been too long. I’m—I really regret how I acted before.”

“Okay,” Harry says, nodding slowly. “Meet me out front after school and we can walk to the park like old times.”

Niall grins and then shifts his feet, looking like he’s trying to decide whether he should hug Harry or just leave. He settles for awkwardly patting Harry on the shoulder and then tiptoeing away.

It’s silent for a while, then, until Harry says, “I should tell you what happened.”

Ironically, this is information that Louis so desperately wanted before Harry’s attack, because he thought it was pertinent and important. Knowing the real killer now, it feels ridiculous that he ever thought  _ Niall _  could kill Harry—he was a nervous wreck just talking about the note he  _ almost _  helped deliver to Harry.

Now, the information is useless, except for the fact that Harry is trusting Louis with it.

“I kind of wish I had a better story,” Harry shrugs wistfully. “But I don’t, so… Niall and I were friends since we were kids. He was always getting teased and left out of things when we were younger, and I could tell he was starting to get jealous of me because—I didn’t have to try as hard for people to like me. By the time we got to high school, people were realizing how cool Niall is, and then he had a lot of friends, but I don’t think he ever got over the mindset that ‘no one likes him’. He started, like, hanging out with other people all the time, and then every few weeks he would tell me he’d plan more time for me out of school, but he never did.”

Harry bites the inside of his cheek and shrugs. “So we were already drifting apart, I think, but then—Well, you know Barbara?” Louis nods. “Niall and her had a thing for a while, a few months ago. I was friends with Barbara first, and you know how people can… talk.”

Louis vaguely remembers everyone thinking Harry and Barbara were going out.

“Niall was so pissed,” Harry says, not looking at Louis. He drops his voice lower. “He thought she was cheating on him and that I was a terrible friend for doing it, and the only way I could get him to understand was if I told him that I’m gay. So I did, but he thought I was lying to get him to forgive me. I can’t blame him for that, ‘cause who else around here has ever been gay?”

“We didn’t talk for months, and then, well, then I came out to the entire  _ school _ , so Niall realized I was never lying, but at that point it was too late. Talking to me again would have made him lose all his new friends. He did apologize to me, once, though, and said that he hates the way people treat me. But, um, yeah. That’s the story.”

The confessions start rolling out, one by one, after this. Like Niall was the bowling ball that knocks over all the pins. Harry tells him about how he never even thought it was different to be gay until he asked a boy to be his boyfriend in third grade and got kicked in the shin and called a word that he didn’t know what it meant. He tells him about all the girls he supposedly dated—a few of which he did date, in the hopes that something would spark in him and he’d end up with the perfect wife—and why everyone thought he was having sex with a different girl every day. (Unsurprisingly, he didn’t have sex with them at all.) He tells him about how he may have had lots of friends growing up, but he always felt lonely. Then, late at night on a Saturday, Harry tells him how he might have been a little desperate for love when he agreed to meet Coach Darrell out in that parking lot.

“I wanted you,” Harry admits, shame seeping into his voice. “But I didn’t think I could have you. He was  _ right there _ , and I thought—I thought he liked me.”

Louis closes his eyes. The flames from the candles Harry lit are dancing behind his eyelids.

“It sounds so  _ stupid _ .”

Louis shakes his head, circling his hands around Harry’s ankle and brushing his thumb over the bone gently. “You trusted him. How could you have known he would hurt you?”

There’s a sniffling noise, and Louis waits for it to turn into sobs, but it doesn’t. Harry wipes his nose with his sleeve and smiles, staying silent.

_ I wanted you _ , keeps bouncing around in Louis’ head. For all that Louis had confessed to Harry while Harry was unconscious, he hadn’t remembered any of it, and only told Louis that he could remember a snake crawling down his throat—clearly not real, only a mix of being intubated and heavily medicated.

There was the time when Louis said he loves Harry and Harry said it back, but he was still so under the weather that Louis wonders if he can even remember it.

“Harry?” Louis whispers, watching Harry’s eyes meet his in the dim candlelight. “You know that—I love you, right?”

Harry’s cheeks dimple and he ducks his head down. “Well, uh, I mean. You said it, before. So hopefully. Hopefully that’s still true.”

“The only reason I didn’t kiss you back in the library was because there were so many people around, and it’s not—I’m not ashamed of myself, but I was—scared. People are so terrible, and I’ve never been, like,  _ open _  about it before.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, his fame remorseful. “I wasn’t thinking about any of that, and then I overreacted when you didn’t kiss back, and—this is all my fault.”

Louis grips Harry’s hands tight enough to bruise. “No, it’s  _ not _ .”

He says it with enough passion and truth that Harry nods, accepting it.

The orange light flickers across Harry’s eyes, and then he’s asking, “Can I, um, can we try again?”

A cocktail of anxiety, excitement, love, and fear race through Louis all at once, freezing him to his spot except for a tiny nod. Harry leans forward, his eyes taking a long look at Louis’ own before he shuts them and closes the gap, pressing his lips to Louis’ sweetly.

Every thought Louis could possibly think of slips away, his worry disintegrating, all his brain power focused on  _ Harry, Harry, Harry _ .

Harry is a good kisser, a great kisser, maybe the  _ best _  kisser—his lips are soft and wet and his hands are rough where one of them rests on the back of Louis’ neck, the other on his waist. He takes more control than Louis would have guessed, but he lets Louis set the speed.

When they finally separate, Louis’ lips feel numb and tingly. “Oh,” he says, giggling.

“Oh,” Harry agrees.

+

There’s a court date they have to attend, eventually. Lou and Tom, who Louis may have forgotten about, if it weren’t for the vivid nightmares he still has every night, show up with their attorney in tow. Lou makes a beeline for Harry and Louis in the hallway outside the courtroom, gasping and looking very much like she wants to hug him, but is holding herself back.

Harry smiles awkwardly and then glances at Louis, clearly unsure who she is.

“Oh, god, you wouldn’t remember me, would you?” she says, shaking her head. “Don’t even worry about it, okay? I’m Lou, and that’s my husband Tom. We—Louis found us and told us where to drive.”

They’ve never talked about it. Harry never asked how he was found, never even asked what happened to Coach Darrell. It occurs to Louis that he’ll probably have to explain  _ everything _  to Harry.

“Oh,” Harry says, giving them a polite smile. “Well, um, thank you. I don’t, uh, remember much towards the end.”

“We’re just glad to see you’re okay,” Tom says, having finally caught up. “We wanted to come visit you again, but our lawyer wanted to keep us away.”

“Lawyer?” Harry questions, his eyes flickering over to Louis. “What do you need a lawyer for?”

Lou and Tom shift their eyes to Louis, too, everyone looking to him for help. “I’ll tell you, Haz.”

Harry sits down on a wooden bench up against the wall, waiting for Louis. He hugs Lou and Tom tightly, thanking them again for their help, and then joins Harry. He stares at the wall in front of him like it has all the answers to Harry’s questions.

“I’ll tell you the full truth another time,” Louis starts, breathing deep. “I promise. But—But I knew where you were going, that night. I knew I had to stop you. I was trying to make it to the parking lot before you, but I got lost in the woods and broke my arm. I would have been useless if I showed up alone, then, so I went back into town and found Lou and Tom at the bar. They drove me to the parking lot, and—” Louis pauses, biting his lip. “I had brought this kitchen knife with me, but it was even duller by then, because I used it to cut branches. Tom took the knife and we walked the rest of the way to you. Then—I don’t remember so well, because I was only paying attention to you. But I guess that—Tom or Lou got him on the ground and, and cut his throat.”

Harry’s eyes widen, his hands shaking. “But he—he didn’t die?”

“No, he didn’t,” Louis says. “Nurse Julie told me it’s because they didn’t hit any arteries; the knife wasn’t sharp enough, I guess.”

Harry lets out a breath and slumps in his seat. “Oh my god.”

Louis stays silent for a moment, and then says, “So they need a lawyer because they could be charged with attempted murder.”

“They saved my life,” Harry shakes his head, his eyes closing. “You all did. How could they—Why would they punish them?”

Louis tentatively puts his hand on top of Harry’s. He flinches, but doesn’t shake it off, so Louis tangles their fingers together. “We don’t know what they’ll do yet, Haz. Let’s just hope that there are good people in the world who will understand.”

+

There’s a vindictive sort of pride that comes with hearing the words, “Darrell Hayes, found guilty of first degree attempted murder.” 

Everything starts to get better after that.

+

Louis promised Harry that he’d tell him the whole truth eventually, but he can’t think of a good way to tell Harry that this all started when Louis killed himself and was brought back to life two years in the past by a visage of Harry himself.

One Saturday night, after SNL has finished and they’re spread out under soft quilts in the living room, Louis quietly admits, “I have depression.”

Harry turns his head so fast that his curls bounce, his eyebrows drawn together.

“Or, at least I think,” Louis says, sighing. “Well, I know I do. But I’ve never seen a doctor for it.”

Harry shuffles closer, reaching one hand out from under his quilt to rest over top where Louis’ thigh is. He doesn’t say anything yet, though, probably out of kindness.

“There’s—there’s more,” Louis mumbles. “Um. I was feeling… Not great, and I—Tried to kill myself.”

“When?” Harry chokes, his voice high pitched.

“Right before I met you, actually,” Louis says, because it’s not a lie. Harry’s hand tightens on his thigh. “But I promise I don’t feel like that anymore. I still—I don’t feel good, a lot, and sometimes I think about it, but I wouldn’t ever try again.” That’s not a lie either, Louis realizes.

After a moment of silence, Louis steals a glance at Harry and finds his eyes watering.

“Harry,” he whispers, shutting his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I know this is— _ terrible _  timing. It feels so stupid to talk about how sad I am when you’re the one having to deal with all this  _ real  _ stuff, and—”

“Stop,” Harry says, shaking his head. “It’s not like that, I’m not mad at you. Who cares if there are people hurting more than you are? It doesn’t mean you’re not hurting. God, if I went by that logic, I’d be telling myself I have no right to be sad because there are people out there who don’t get to survive their attacks, but I did. You can’t think like that.”

“Okay,” Louis says. “I’m sorry.”

“Louis, I have to tell you something too,” Harry says, his body relaxing. He moves even closer to Louis, practically on his lap, and forces him to make eye contact with him while he talks. Louis fights every urge to look away, instead getting lost in Harry’s deep green eyes. “I know what happened. The whole thing.”

Louis scrunches his face in disbelief. Harry must be talking about something else; maybe he remembered something from the ICU that he couldn’t before?

“When I was in surgery, I died,” Harry says. “It’s not in the hospital records, but I  _ know _  I did. I lost too much blood and I was going into shock, and my heart just stopped.”

Louis’ eyes burn. He has to remind himself that Harry is here, Harry is alive, Harry is  _ better _ .

“I know I died because—All of the sudden, I woke up in this weird room with no floor, in a bed that wasn’t mine.”

Louis’ eyes widen and his mouth falls open, no words escaping.

“I fell down into this bed of feathers, and then this voice with no body started talking to me. It was all happening so quick—I could barely understand what he was talking about, but he told me that I was dead and I wasn’t meant to be dead, and that I got a second chance because of  _ you _ ,” Harry says, his eyes sparkling. “You saved me, Louis.”

He can hardly process the fact that  _ Harry knows _ . In all of his worry about telling Harry the truth, he’d never considered this.

“So you know  _ everything _ ?” Louis manages to ask.

Harry shakes his head. “No, I only know that I was dead once before and it was your job to save me. Why? Why you?”

“Because I upset the balance of the universe,” Louis says. It doesn’t sound nearly as convincing to say it out loud, rather than hearing it from an angel, or whatever Faux-Harry was. “You were already dead, and you weren’t supposed to be, so that was strike one. Then I—I killed myself and I wasn’t supposed to, so that was strike two. My sister Lottie, um, she hung herself after I died, and that was strike three. The only option was to either wipe out everyone on the planet and start fresh, or send me back in time to correct the mistakes.”

“But why?” Harry says, his face pinched with confusion. “What’s the point of it all?”

“I wish I knew,” Louis says. “I guess we’ll learn all of that when we die for real. When we’re supposed to.”

Harry nods, and his face gets a little softer. “Hopefully that won’t be for a long time.”

A new expression envelopes Harry’s face, making his lips tilt down as he bites the bottom one. “So does that mean we only know each other because you were assigned to take care of me?”

“No,” Louis insists, tangling their ankles together under their quilts. “Maybe that’s the only reason why I was brave enough to talk to you, but it’s not why I like you. If I’d known you the first time around, I think we would’ve still ended up like this.”

Harry smiles softly, his eyelashes fluttering like Snow White. He leans forward and kisses him, only a short peck, but Louis pushes forward too, keeping their lips together.

When they eventually separate, they stack their quilts on top of each other so they can share them and cuddle at the same time. Harry’s curls tickle Louis’ neck, and his arm falls asleep within seconds where it’s wrapped around Harry’s shoulders, but it’s all worth it to feel him so close. He can feel every breath, every heartbeat, even. Harry is warm and soft, and Louis feels addicted.

“Can you tell me what happened to me in your time?” Harry tentatively asks.

“I don’t think—”

“I want to know,” Harry whispers.

Louis watches Harry’s eyes, cataloguing his emotion. Finally, he sighs. “Um, well. I had dreams about all of this,” Louis says. “Nightmares, really. They felt like I was watching a movie, only I couldn’t turn it off.”

Harry gasps. “That first day I slept over, you woke up yelling and you were terrified all morning. You… Dreamt about me?”

“That was the worst one,” Louis says. “Most of the dreams I had were more like clues, but that one was just—brutal.”

Harry pauses, and then says, “Tell me?”

“It happened exactly how it happened in this time. If we hadn’t of gotten you out when we did, the next thing he would have done is, um, stab you in the thigh. You tried to run after that, but you didn’t make it. That was the end of my dream, but I know from the news and stuff that that’s when he grabbed you and hit your head on the ground,” Louis takes a shaky breath. “You were half-unconscious but you were  _ still _  fighting, Harry. And then—he dragged you over to the dumpster and, and choked you with his bare hands. They found you inside the dumpster a few days later.”

Harry nods solemnly, but he’s taking it better than Louis thought he would.

“It sort of doesn’t feel like we’re talking about  _ me _ ,” Harry says. “I don’t even feel, like—sad or anything, because it doesn’t feel real.”

“It’s not real, anymore,” Louis says, smiling slightly. “You’re still here, safe.”

Harry’s cheeks stretch into a dimpled smile, his eyes bright. “Thanks to you,” he says, and then falls silent for a moment. “Now come on, let’s go to bed.”

+

When Louis first wakes up, he thinks he might be having another memory-style dream. He’s in an unfamiliar place, he knows that, but the lights are too dim to see much of anything. All he knows is that he’s lying next to someone who is still asleep.

It doesn’t  _ feel _  like a dream, is the thing. Louis doesn’t feel like he’s on the outside looking in, he feels like it’s just another day. If he wasn’t so confused, he might have simply fallen back to sleep, considering the sun hasn’t even risen yet.

The person beside him rolls over, making little snuffling noises. It’s distinctly Harry.

“Harry,” Louis whispers, an apologetic expression on his face, though Harry can’t see it. “Harry, wake up.”

“Wha—” Harry’s eyes crack open, yawning instantly. “Lou?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” he says. “Um, do you know where we are?”

Harry huffs out a small giggle and then closes his eyes again. “Your living room floor.”

“No, no, we’re not, though,” Louis says urgently. So it’s not just Louis that can’t remember how they got here. “It’s—someone’s bedroom. Not mine.”

Harry sits up slowly, feeling his hands around the headboard and the side of the mattress. There’s a bedside table next to Harry that has an alarm clock (lit up to say 4:30 am) and a book on it. Nothing helpful. “Let’s, uh,” Harry hums, tilting his head in confusion. “Go turn the light on?”

They both stand up, holding their arms out so they don’t bump into anything, eventually making it to where the door seems to be. They feel around for the switch until they find it, illuminating the room in a soft yellow glow.

The bedroom is white with one wall of brown wood paneling, a moderately sized room with plenty of windows. The main furniture pieces are mid century style, with bright pops of color in the decorations. It  _ screams _  Harry.

Louis wanders over to the dresser, picking up a picture frame. “Haz,” he calls, his eyes wide. “Look.”

The picture is of Harry and Louis, holding hands in front of a sign labeled  _ Rocky Mountain National Park _ . It’s summer, the flowers in bloom and the trees in full color. Louis has been to this park millions of times, but never with Harry.

Inexplicably, Louis remembers this photo being taken. He remembers the first day of summer break, Harry’s parents helping him pack up his dorm room and drive back home. He remembers running to Harry with his arms wide, embracing him like he hadn’t seen him all year, when really, he’d just driven up to see him three days ago. They excitedly bounced ideas off of each other, thinking about getting a job together, or about finally making that trip to San Francisco, or about going on a road trip. They were giddy at the realization that they’d made it halfway through their so-called ‘long distance relationship’, which really isn’t too long distance, considering they both make the hour trip to see each other at least once a week.

They decided to go hiking together and then sleep in a tent on the campgrounds. Despite living so close to the park their entire lives, neither of them had ever spent the night there.

Louis looks up at Harry, and then squeaks. “Harry, your hair!”

His hair was always curly and a little long, swooping over his forehead, but now it’s grown down past his shoulders in soft, wavy ringlets.

Harry runs his hands through it, smiling. “I like this,” he says. When he looks up, he squints at Louis’ arm and then gasps. “You got a tattoo!”

Louis looks down at his forearm to see a dagger there, and, like a switch going off, he remembers getting it done. The cold leather chair, the sharp pain, and then Harry switching places with him once he finished. “You have one too,” Louis says, reaching for Harry’s arm. On the same place as Louis’ dagger, Harry has a delicate rose. “It looks good on you.”

Harry blushes. “We’re, like,  _ really _  together, then.”

“As opposed to fakely together, yeah,” Louis teases. When Harry’s eyes turn into slits Louis giggles. “I love you.”

Harry shakes his head against the smile creeping over his face.

They eventually explore the rest of the house together, new memories tumbling around their brains as if they’d never left in the first place. In the kitchen—spacious and bright with plenty of counterspace—Louis remembers smearing chocolate sauce all over Harry’s chest and attempting to lick it off before realizing that it’s a lot sexier in the books than in real life. In the dining room, he sees Louis and Harry’s families coming together for a Christmas dinner, the first one in their new place. In the living room, he finds Lottie commenting on all the furniture, wondering why it’s  _ so old _  while her boyfriend Tommy assures them that it looks good anyway.

When they get to the front door, they remember the day they got the keys to the house. When Louis graduated high school, their parents had teamed up and found a dirt cheap house nearby the college that they would both be going to. It needed serious cosmetic repairs, but it was safe and it was  _ home _ . Not many other people their age could say they own a house, either.

 

_ “It’s a bit of a shit hole,” Harry says when the front door opens. “And smells kind of like cat pee.” _

_ Harry attempts to step forward, but Louis shoots his arm out to stop him. “Did you really think I wouldn’t be carrying you across the threshold?” _

_ Harry rolls his eyes. “Lou,” he whines. “Come on, I want to see the rest of the house.” _

_ Louis motions for him to bend down and then he scoops him up into his arms—only, he’s not quite strong enough for that, his knees buckling and sending them both to the floor. Harry coughs as a cloud of dust hidden between cracks in the wood goes flying. _

_ “Louuu,” he whines again, frowning at him. “You dropped me.” _

_ Louis crawls over him, his legs on either side of Harry’s, and plants wet kisses all over his cheeks to make up for it. “Sorry, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the tip of his nose and then finally his lips. _

_ They hardly get a single kiss in before Fizzy is standing in the open doorway, saying, “Gross, guys, can’t you christen the house when we leave?” _

 

“This is so weird,” Harry says. “The last thing I  _ really _  remember is you and I falling asleep in your living room. But the last thing I remember for  _ real _  is us driving back here last night after a late drive to visit our families.”

Louis remembers it too. Deciding to make an impromptu visit back home for the weekend, spending Friday night at Louis’ house and Saturday night at Harry’s, then driving back late Sunday night. “It’s fucking weird,” Louis agrees, rooting around the house for more information. “Can’t believe we have a house together already…”

“You don’t, like, regret it, do you?” Harry asks timidly.

Louis whips his head around to look at him, shaking his head. “God, of course not. How lucky are we to start our lives already?”

Harry grins and ducks his head. “Yeah,” he says.

They start to turn around to look at more of the house, when they notice a little note taped to the coat rack next to the door. Louis picks it up, reading aloud, “Dearest Louis and Harry,” he says, laughing. “You might have noticed that you are in an unfamiliar place. With time, you will remember everything you have experienced in the past four years. I cannot explain the reasons for this time skipping; it is yet another question you will have to patiently wait for the answer to. As respectfully as possible, I hope to not see either of you for a very long time. Thank you for all that you’ve done.”

There’s no name at the bottom, but there doesn’t need to be.

“We did it,” Louis smiles.

Harry makes a noise of agreement and then kisses him.

They mutually decide to go back to sleep, once they’ve done two laps around the entire house. It’s dim, but the sun has started to creep over the horizon, washing the room in a soft yellow glow. It’s just bright enough for Louis to see Harry’s brows furrowed, biting his lip anxiously.

“What’s wrong?” Louis asks.

Harry relaxes his face, shaking his head. “It’s nothing. I just want to see—um. My stomach.”

“Oh, Harry,” Louis sighs. It hurts his heart to think that Harry still hates the way he looks now.  “It’s okay if the scars are still there. You’re so, so beautiful, with or without them.”

Slowly, Harry brings the fabric of his shirt up over his abdomen, eyes zeroing in on the long, prominent scar, the still-pink mark to the left of it. “Oh,” Harry deflates. “Still there.”

“Still gorgeous,” Louis murmurs, kissing Harry’s neck. He gently puts his hand over Harry’s stomach, rubbing his thumb over the rough skin. “You’re the bravest, best, hottest person I know.”

Harry giggles, rolling his eyes. He doesn’t need to say anything back.

+

It turns out that Harry and Louis never made it to San Francisco. Despite Harry planning out the entire trip, they never got around to actually booking the hotel and buying the bus tickets. They’d been busy, with Harry still recovering, and then going off to college, and then buying their house. The timing wasn’t right.

“Let’s go to San Francisco,” Harry says one day, while the morning news blares on for background noise. They just did a segment on whether or not having homosexual teachers influences children to be gay too, and the general consensus from the community was  _ yes _ . Louis had just rolled his eyes. “Like we planned before. Let’s go.”

Louis looks up, a slow grin taking over his face. “Yeah?”

Harry nods, his longer, wavier hair still bouncing with it. Some things never change. “Tomorrow. Let’s just go, Lou.”

So they do.

+

Louis turns over in their cheap hotel bed, cringing when it creaks underneath him. Harry had crashed as soon as his head hit the pillow—tired out from a long day of exploring the city— so it’s unlikely that he’ll be sleeping lightly, but Louis tries to be quiet anyway.

Harry looks angelic in this light. The curtains are only drawn half way, letting the light from the bustling city outside escape in. It’s a soft neon sign, all the colors of the rainbow flashing, illuminating Harry’s sleeping face with pinks and blues and yellows. The sheet is pulled up to Harry’s waist, and he’s shirtless. It’s happened a few times, now, but Louis still can’t believe his luck whenever Harry allows him to see this part of his body—the prominent scars that he’s so insecure about, that he’s tried every lotion under the sun to lessen the visibility of, the scars that had, in the beginning, kept him from even wanting a mirror in his bathroom. And he’s letting Louis see them.

Louis lets his eyes flutter closed, dragging a hand over Harry’s side to pull him closer.

Yet, he still can’t sleep.

It isn’t a bad night. He still has those, every now and then. Nights where he tosses and turns, or nights where he’s positively paralyzed with anxiety over something that even Louis himself doesn’t understand. Nights where a dark garage and a running car seem like a valid option. These nights have become so infrequent lately, mostly due to the fact that Louis can finally _  tell _  someone. He can talk to Harry when he feels sad, or when he’s over thinking the smallest things, and Harry is simultaneously honest and gentle with him. He knows when to tell Louis that he’s worried about nothing, or when to just hug him instead. Harry didn’t  _ fix _  Louis—no one could have. He did something better; he gave Louis the tools to fix himself.

He still can’t sleep.

There’s this fear that’s been festering for a while. Irrational, maybe, but it unnerves Louis anyway.

He’s terrified that even after everything he and Harry have been through together, they still won’t make it, somehow. He’s afraid that they’ll get through all of this, only to break up when they’re forty two years old and have three kids.

It’s not a bad night, yet, but Louis can feel the jittery nerves setting in.

He must be tapping his finger on Harry’s waist, because he sees Harry slowly start blinking, confused.

“Shit, sorry,” Louis whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

Harry mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, babe,” he shakes his head. Harry gives him a piercing look even while he’s looking like a sleep ruffled kitten. “It’s really nothing. I shouldn’t even be, like, worried right now. It’s just—Well. What happens if we don’t make it? If we—We get so far and then we just break up?”

“Hold on, let me go get my crystal ball,” Harry giggles, making like he’s about to stand up. Louis  _ humphs _  and pulls him back down to cuddle. Harry kisses him softly, still laughing at his own joke. “That won’t happen to us. I can’t promise you, but I can promise that the way I feel about you isn’t going anywhere. I’ll love you forever, whether you stay with me for the rest of our lives, or break up with me next week. You’re not that easy to forget.”

Louis’ face stretches into a fond smile. “Well, you’re in luck. I wasn’t planning on breaking up with you until next month.”

Harry rolls his eyes and then closes them. “We can talk more in the morning,” he yawns. “Can you sleep okay now?”

Louis hums, settling in. “Yeah. Love you, babe.”

+

_ “Harry, have you ever considered the fact that we’re old?” _

_ Harry blinks, looking up from his Kindle. “Uh, well. I guess? I mean, last week, me and Niall skipped our Friday night drinks so we could both go see the chiropractor. That was pretty awful.” _

_ “We’re fucking old,” Louis moans, rubbing his forehead. “Fuck. We’re old.” _

_ Harry laughs, his dimples on show, and all Louis sees is the seventeen year old boy he fell for all those years ago. Harry was blessed with the inability to age—he’s acquired about two wrinkles in total. Possibly an exaggeration, but that could be because Harry is still the most beautiful man alive in Louis’ eyes. _

_ “Harry, listen,” Louis says seriously, and then makes a face of contempt at his next words, “I was reading this Buzzfeed thing.” _

_ Harry, thankfully, doesn’t comment. _

_ “Freddie Mercury died twenty six years ago, Harry,” he says. “We’re well old enough to be Britney Spears’ and Lady Gaga’s and Beyonce’s and Christina Aguilera's parents. It’s been thirty four fucking years since M*A*S*H ended. In five months we’re about to be grandparents.” _

_ “Oh, so that’s what this is about,” Harry turns his Kindle off, setting it on the coffee table. “I knew you’d crack soon. You were being eerily calm about it all.” _

_ “I just can’t believe it,” Louis groans, flopping onto the couch next to Harry. “Our baby is having a baby.” _

_ Harry puts an arm around Louis’ shoulder and kisses him on the cheek. “And he’s going to be such a good dad too, you know that. Won’t it be so nice to have a little baby around again? It’s been forever since Andy was that little.” _

_ “Just yesterday, Andy asked us if they could give pudding to a newborn, because it’s cheaper than baby food.” _

_ Harry snorts, shrugging. “And if you’ll remember, the first day I left you alone with Andy, you called me and asked,  _ hypothetically _ , what to do when a baby pees all over the couch because someone forgot to put a diaper on him.” _

_ Louis crosses his arms, shaking his head. “I didn’t forget, I made the conscious decision to not put a diaper on him for five minutes because he had that rash, you remember? I thought it would help!” _

_ “I know you did,” Harry says, scrunching his nose and smiling. “Andy’s gonna be just fine, okay? And besides, even if he’s the most irresponsible dad ever, he’ll still love that kid more than anyone in the world.” _

_ Louis sighs, but relaxes into the couch. “You’re right. I know. I just can’t believe it.” _

_ “Me either,” Harry says, and Louis can feel the honesty of the statement. “It doesn’t feel like six years ago since Andy came home holding hands with Gia and Liam shit his pants.” _

_ “God, Liam’s face!” Louis snickers, remembering the way Liam had gone white as a sheet when his daughter announced that she and Andy were dating. _

_ Being best friends with Louis and Harry meant that he was there for Andy’s entire childhood, had watched him grow up; he knew Andy was a good kid, but he also knew that he had to retake Geometry  _ and _  Algebra, that he failed his driver's test three times before he was no longer considered a deadly risk to the road, that he once dated and proposed to a girl who he didn’t really like, only because he wanted to steal one of her jackets. Liam loved Andy like he was his own son, but that didn’t mean he necessarily wanted him to date his precious daughter, Gia. _

_ Now, they’ve been married for three years and have been trying for a baby for almost as long. When Gia finally got pregnant, they hadn’t even waited until she was into the second trimester before they handed each set of dads a toolbelt with the words “Grandpa’s babysitting kit” on the front, fully stocked with pacifiers and gloves and onesies and teeny tiny baby socks. That day was a sob fest if there ever was one. _

_ “Haz?” Louis says, laying his cheek on Harry’s chest. “I never told you this, but when we first had Andy, I was so scared—of everything. I thought I would drop him, or that he would grow up and hate me like I hate my dad, or that somehow I would fuck up and he’d be a teenage runaway.” _

_ “Oh, Lou,” Harry murmurs sympathetically. _

_ “And I was so worried that we would break up,” he says, laughing. “Like when Andy moved out, we’d realize that we have nothing in common anymore and we don’t even love each other.” _

_ “Haven’t I already told you?” Harry tilts Louis’ chin up so he can feel his breath hitting his lips. “I’ll love you forever, Louis.” _

_ Just like that, they’re forty eight and forty six again, finally having an official wedding ceremony after waiting so long. They’re twenty six and twenty four, adopting a baby boy together, even though only Louis’ name could be on the documents back then. They’re twenty and eighteen, buying their forever house. They’re eighteen and sixteen, driving an hour from town to Harry’s college and back every few days; completely neglecting schoolwork in favor of kissing endlessly on Harry’s dorm bed, somehow still passing their classes anyway. _

_ They’re all this and more. They’ve grown together like two trees planted a little too close, their branches intertwining, their bark connecting and growing stronger as the years go by. _

_ Louis smiles. Just before connecting their lips, he says, “I’ll love you forever and a day.” _

+

_ Yeah _ , Louis thinks when he wakes up.  _ We’ll be alright _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments absolutely make my day, and they also tell me what you liked/didn't like, so I know better next time! I hope you liked reading this as much as I liked writing it.
> 
> [fic post](http://homelyrics.tumblr.com/post/164373370599/life-had-just-begun-word-count-64k-graphic)

**Author's Note:**

> (I had to split this in half for formatting purposes.)


End file.
